This story is the fourth in a series. The first story is Bound to the Law, which is in the Classics section. The second story is Bound to the Law II: Pierced by Circumstance in Late Models. The third story is Bound to the Law III: Working Out the Kinks in Late Models. Comments on this story can be sent to:


Hutch stalked slowly down the alley, his ears straining for any extraneous sound. He filtered out the ambient sounds of cars, kids in a nearby basketball court and rats skittering through the trash littering the cement. Where was Starsky? Which way had he run?

Starsky was going to be in hot water for running out without informing Hutch where he was going, but the first order of business was to find him. Hutch could feel the irrational fear and accompanying surge of adrenaline-spiked tension rolling off him in waves and fought to bring it down a notch. Starsky would get what he deserved but it didn't help to go running after him in a blind rage. There must have been a good reason for him to have bolted so suddenly. Had someone seen the two of them together in the bar?

Flattening himself against a brick wall Hutch held his Magnum pistol up towards the sky and patted the small of his back ensure that his handcuffs were still tucked there. Starsky couldn't be far--he'd run out the back of the bar but Hutch had lost him quickly in the maze of intersecting alleyways.

He took a deep breath to slow his heart rate before bringing his gun down, holding it out with a stiff arm. Striding rapidly across a vacant lot, Hutch gained the far side without incident. Then he finally heard the slap of sneakers on a sidewalk close by.

"Starsky!" Hutch screamed, dashing around an empty storefront into the dim recesses behind. With the sun just setting the narrow alley he found himself in was a dark hole. What he wouldn't give for a flashlight, he thought dazedly. Feeling his way cautiously, Hutch froze, hearing the footsteps up ahead and a loud reverberation of gunfire.


"Starsky!" Running flat out, Hutch skidded past a dumpster and exploded into the open door of an auto body shop. Starsky had his back to Hutch, crouched low with his hands held wide, but he was weaponless. A hulking menace loomed just opposite the curly-haired detective, similarly crouched. In the gloom Hutch could barely make out what was going on and tightened his finger on the Magnum's trigger. Using his left hand he reached out blindly, searching for a light panel. Just as Hutch felt the switch and flicked it upward he saw a flash of sliver arc downward, catching Starsky in the upper arm.

In a single motion Hutch took the knife-wielding threat down with one bullet, straight through his right shoulder.

"Starsk?" Hutch panted, glancing over at his partner but keeping the perp covered with his .357. Watching his lover get knifed had been quite sufficient to quell the anger he'd tried to suppress and he was surprised how shaky his own voice sounded. "You okay?"

"I'll make it," Starsky said tightly, pressing a hand against the wound, but the knife stuck out obscenely from his arm. It was a surprisingly small weapon, not much bigger than a large Swiss Army knife, but it could still cause a great deal of damage.

Sparing a second to assess Starsky's wounds, his belly clenching at the sight of the blood, Hutch focused on the other man on the ground. He was dark skinned with tightly curled black hair and a belligerent sneer.

"Po-lice brutality, you pig," the man shouted, trying unsuccessfully to scrabble away like a crab.

"What do you call knifing an officer of the law?" Hutch growled, flicking open the cuffs one handed and snapping them around the guy's thick left wrist.

"Hey, I'm wounded!" he protested. "Bastard didn't look like no cop!"

"You have the right to remain silent," Hutch recited dispassionately, closing the empty cuff around a copper pipe bolted to the garage wall. He finished the Miranda with a grimace of disgust, wanting only to gather Starsky in his arms and rush him to the nearest ER. He was in charge of the crime scene, though, and there was protocol to follow.

Swallowing the bile in this throat he turned to find Starsky standing.

"What are you trying to do?" Hutch exploded, ignoring the increasingly vile threats out of the handcuffed prisoner.

"Gotta call for back-up," Starsky answered, not cowed in the least by Hutch's sudden thunderous temper.

"You've been knifed. Sit down, you need to wait for the medics to patch up your arm."

"No," Starsky said flatly. "I don't want to go to the hospital." He tightened his grip on the wound, biting his lip as more blood trickled out between his fingers; shockingly red against the cream-colored windbreaker he wore.

"Starsky!" Hutch swiftly checked that the black man was still securely cuffed to the pipe before turning his back on him. "You need stitches at the very least. I am not pulling that thing out of your arm."

As if fighting to make a decision, Starsky shook his head, "I don't want some brand new resident with a cocky attitude checking me out and thinking something kinky's goin' on!"

"S-starsk..." Hutch stammered to a halt suddenly understanding Starsky's reluctance to be examined. It had been barely a week since he'd chained Starsky down on a table and inserted a huge anal plug into his asshole, the culmination of a fantastic weekend in their own little world of BDSM. This was their choice of sexual fantasy, but most people would have declared what they had done together an abomination. That they were two consenting adults who enjoyed the rough play of sex toys and bondage would have made little difference to some. That included a huge number of the religious, medical, and law enforcement communities who might easily report them to Internal Affairs or some other governing board of the Bay City Police Department.

"You gonna get somebody to take care'a my arm, pig?" the prisoner yelled, jerking on his cuffed arm. "I'm bleedin' to death here."

"Starsky, I know a doctor. In fact he's not far from here--at Bay Valley Hospital," Hutch said more gently, taking Starsky's uninjured arm. He briefly felt his best friend's pulse, pleased that it beat solid and strong. "Trust me on this one. He's sympathetic to the scene."

"Yeah?" Starsky looked up into Hutch's eyes and for a moment Hutch saw the other's cop persona slip away to be replaced by the loving man who wanted nothing more than to kneel at his feet, but it was a brief flash and then gone. "I can manage to walk back to the car and call a patrol car while you keep your eye on your collar," Starsky said reasonably, pressing his wounded arm close to his body, but able to stand without swaying or any outward signs of shock.

"Shit," Hutch swore vehemently, knowing his partner was right. Someone needed to stay with the prisoner in case he tried to make a break for it, but leaving a wounded, defenseless man in charge was probably not the best idea. "Starsky, who is this guy, why'd you run after him?"

Starsky smiled with the smug expression that said categorically he'd gotten something over Hutch, "Don't you recognize Charley Waters? Raped and knifed three women in the last two months. Only the most wanted guy in the city."

Staring at the struggling perp Hutch shook his head in wonder. How had Starsky seen the guy in the dark bar where they'd been called on a trivial matter involving a dispute between two drunks?

Charley Waters mouthed off with such an obscene and most probably completely impossible sexual act that Hutch didn't know whether to laugh or smack him across the mouth.

"Doesn't look much like his poster," Hutch said finally, not seeing any likeness between Waters and the crude sketch the police artist had drawn from the victims' descriptions.

"No?" Starsky shrugged with a grimace, squeezing his knifed arm tightly, obviously fighting the pain. "I knew it was him in a heartbeat. And I'd lay odds this is his weapon of choice. I'm confiscatin' the sucker the minute it's pulled out of my arm."

"Where's your piece?" Hutch smiled grimly, his mouth dry at the thought of what might have happened if it had gone into Starsky's chest instead of an upper arm.

"He smacked me with a two-by-four or somethin' when I ran in, my shot went wild, and the gun slid over there," Starsky pointed, unconsciously using his left arm to point with. He waited until Hutch looked over in the indicated direction before wincing in pain and cradling his wounded arm.

"I'll find it, just..." Hutch looked back over his shoulder, relieved to know Starsky had survived yet another attack. There would be a day when he might not be so lucky, it was just a matter of time. "Keep your head down and be careful."

"Yes, sir," Starsky quipped with a ragged smile.


"No major break, but your wrist'll be swollen for a day or two from the blow. The knife wound didn't cause any serious muscle damage and should heal cleanly," Dr. Simon Davies said evenly, winding the last of the gauze bandage around Starsky's arm. "I put in eight stitches. If you come back in a week, I can take them out, unless you have your own physician."

"No, we'll come back here." Starsky gritted his teeth. Even though he'd been given something to numb his arm during the examination and the stitches, his whole body ached from the strain of holding himself erect. He just wanted to go home and pass out for a couple of hours.

"Then, since the main reason for your visit is over, can we talk privately?" The doctor placed a piece of tape over the dressing to keep it in place and walked across the room to wash his hands.

"Yeah." Starsky turned his tired gaze at Hutch sitting quietly next to the gurney in the chair reserved for family members. The blond nodded, reaching out to rub Starsky's thigh.

"You asked for me specially?" Davies asked calmly, drying his hands on a paper towel and tossing it into the trash. "And even waited for over an hour until I was finished with my last patient. With that thing in your arm, it must have hurt like hell. I take it you had a reason?"

"I took a couple aspirin," Starsky mumbled, suddenly embarrassed to talk about their secret aloud. Neither he nor Hutch had ever told anyone else what they did with their free time, well, not completely anyway. After he'd found out an old girlfriend lived as a full time slave, he had intimated to her that he had like interests, but that had been the extent of it. Hell, it was just over a month since the first time he'd been put into restraints for sexual purposes. On many levels, he was only just coming to terms with it himself, even if he liked bondage way more than he'd ever imagined was possible.

"Do we have to spell it out, doctor?" Hutch asked brusquely, his residual anger from the attack still evident.

"You're in the scene, then, I take it?"

"Yes," Hutch agreed, "We've only been doing it for a short time, so we haven't had much--shall we say--initiation into the support groups and parties but a mutual friend recommended your name as someone we could go to for medical care."

"But this wound wasn't the result of a scene gone bad." Simon raised dark eyebrows. He had the pale skin and dark hair of a black Irishman, combined with dark blue eyes to rival Starsky's, and the bearing of someone who'd spent at least a few years in the military. His hair was combed precisely and the pale blue striped shirt under his blood-spotted lab coat was pristine.

"No, sir." Starsky spoke carefully, attuned to the man's attitude. He was a dominant and most likely didn't take kindly to slaves speaking out of turn. "We're cops."

"Ah." The doctor smiled with a nod. "Now I know why you look familiar. You solved Carlysle's murder. Your pictures were in the paper."

"Right," Hutch agreed. "The thing is, we need to keep our involvement in the scene way under the radar. Any time Starsky gets injured on the job there's the potential for someone seeing something that..."

"I completely understand, and you've come to the right doctor." He glanced over the two of them with a professional eye. "You both look in good condition. Did Starsky have a physical before you started playing?"

"Should I have?" Starsky squeaked.

"It's not a bad idea. Especially since you've obviously been seriously wounded in the past, judging from the scars. You were shot?"

"Four times in the back," Hutch spoke up.

"More'n two years ago," Starsky added. "Not a problem any more." He didn't think he had to admit to the residual aches and pains he got occasionally when it rained.

"These look very well healed." The doctor pulled down the neck of Starsky's hospital gown low enough to view the upper most scars on his chest once again. Starsky tolerated the man's examination without protest for a few minutes because he was a doctor and a master, but finally jerked the gown up over his shoulder. "But some scenes can get very physical."

"You're telling me," Starsky agreed, remembering some of the more contorted positions Hutch had placed him in and they'd only gotten together for kink three times.

"What kinds of play have you done?" Simon asked, directing his questions at Hutch. Starsky sat quietly, trying again to accept that in the BDSM world, nearly everyone recognized Hutch as the master and himself as the slave. It was if it had been tattooed across his forehead. "Bondage? Pain play?" Davies persisted.

"All of that," Hutch answered, going on to explain his experience with BDSM and what he and Starsky had found pleasurable.

"If you're going to continue using a strap for pain play or punishments, I seriously suggest you take some instruction in how to swing a whip and a flogger," Simon said conversationally. "It saves a lot of wear and tear on the slave."

"I've talked to Caress about that," Hutch admitted. Starsky started in surprise, giving a slight yelp when he jostled his wound. He hadn't been aware of Hutch's plans to further his 'education'.

"Then she must have told you about MAST--Masters and Slaves Together?" Simon opened a drawer and pulled out a packet of information. "They hold classes in how to do everything from write your initials on your slave's back with a whip to building your own dungeon. You should give them a call."

"Planning on it, thanks." Hutch was completely relaxed now, all signs of anger gone as he chatted amicably.

Starsky still found himself ill at ease with the whole subject. It was one thing talking to Hutch, his master, about what they planned to do with leather cuffs and gags, and quite another to be talking openly with what amounted to a complete stranger. Even if Caress and Lisa, both of whom he trusted implicitly, had vouched for the doctor.

Despite his reservations, the appeal of BDSM still held Starsky in its thrall. He got instantly hard just imagining Hutch wearing leather pants and little else, ordering him to his knees to be collared and cuffed. Afterwards he'd be forced to bend forward, his ass open and vulnerable...

"When were you two planning on having another session?" Simon asked as Starsky came out of his reverie.

"I guess that's up to you, but we've got reservations at the Estate this weekend," Hutch said.

"It'll be six days from now on Friday; come by then and I'll take the stitches out." Simon smiled with a nod. "Can't promise anything, but I suspect that as long as you don't hang him by his wrists and keep the rough stuff to a minimum, there's no reason to give up your cabin. The Estate's one of my favorite weekend retreats. I go there all the time."

"Which is your favorite cabin?" Starsky asked with interest, trying to picture the perfectly groomed, elegant man applying the whip to some slave's backside.

"Ah, number four. Can't beat a room with a rack." Simon handed over the envelope he'd been holding along with Starsky's discharge and wound care instructions. "Make an appointment with my office, the number's in this packet, and I'll keep my eye on you both, whether it's job-related, or scene."

Walking out to the car, Starsky was acutely aware of the set of Hutch's shoulders. Although talking to Dr. Davies had loosened him up, Hutch was once again tense, his whole body rigid.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Starsky asked sharply, the sling around his neck already cramping the muscles in his back.

"Pretty much, yeah." Hutch fumbled with the keys to the Torino, holding open the door for Starsky.

"For getting knifed?"

"Mostly for running out of the bar without telling me, but also putting yourself in a position where you could get hurt." Hutch shoved the keys into the ignition, then yanked hard on them, pressing on the gas pedal at the same moment. The powerful engine roared briefly, gurgled, and then died.

"You flooded the engine," Starsky pointed out needlessly.

"I am aware of that," Hutch hissed, turning to face his partner. "Damn it, Starsky, what happened to all that crap about me and thee? Huh? You ran outta there, I didn't know where you'd gone...scared the shit out of me. You think I like walking in just in time to see you get knifed?"

"I knew you'd follow me."

"Fuck!" Hutch swore, shoving his sweaty bangs back. "Yeah, but did it ever occur to you to tell me where you were going? Who you were chasing? The bartender musta thought we were both nuts, haring out of there after some phantom when he had those two drunken bums trying to brain each other with beer bottles."

"I yelled, 'Hutch out the back'," Starsky pointed out. He knew jollying Hutch out of this mood right now was out of the question. Hutch could simmer a rage like nobody else, so it was easier just to stand with the flames licking at his feet until it burned itself out. At which time, Hutch was often contrite and very loving. Making up reaped its own rewards.

When Hutch didn't answer, Starsky asked tightly, "You gonna punish me?" As strange as it seemed, he both feared and welcomed the idea. He had acted rashly. Maybe a couple of swats on the behind would do him good. At least his father used to subscribe to the 'spare the rod, spoil the child' philosophy of child rearing. Not that what Hutch could do to him bore any relationship to that, whatsoever. The problem was, the idea was almost too enticing, too arousing. The real thing hurt a good bit more than the fantasy, but both served to make him half-hard, right there in the car.

"I'm in a real quandary here, Starsk." Hutch sighed and Starsky was glad to see that the anger must have banked for now. Hutch rubbed his palm absently over the leather steering wheel cover. "On one hand I made a vow to myself not mix what happens on the street with our lives when we're on the clock." Starsky nodded at the phrase they'd invented to symbolize their bondage weekends.

"On the other hand, if you had signed a contract for a full-time relationship, all that would be different. You didn't just get injured, you damaged my property." Hutch continued, looking straight at him, those pale blue eyes nearly colorless in the dim light of the car. There were standing lamps spaced at wide intervals around the hospital parking lot, but none were close enough to provide any real illumination to the two men inside the Torino. It gave Starsky a very isolated-on-a-desert-island feeling.

"But I didn't sign anything...yet," Starsky said quietly, his mouth dry. They'd discussed taking the next terrifying step in their relationship, but it was like climbing a mountain. Starsky needed to prepare, to acclimatize himself.

Being master and slave all the time, outside of their cop lives, meant doing away with a safeword and giving every ounce of autonomy and trust over to Hutch's dominance. It wasn't so much that he didn't trust Hutch, because he did. It was more that he didn't trust himself, that he would ever be able to fully commit, body and soul. He'd always been fiercely independent, even though he'd yoked himself to Hutch the minute he'd laid eyes on him that first day at the Police Academy. They'd been a matched set, no matter how opposite in temperament and coloring, right from the start and strangely enough, working so closely together had actually given Starsky a real sense of freedom. He could go as far out on a limb as possible, always knowing there was a safety net behind him in the form of a tall blond partner. What if agreeing to a 24/7 arrangement cost him the safety net, his best friend? As much as Starsky loved their times together as master and slave, he couldn't ignore that it had changed their relationship, even if only partially. He wanted to acquiesce to Hutch. In truth, he'd often done so in the past, sometimes with a growl of complaint, but he'd always listened to Hutch's mandates. What if he couldn't turn that off and he really did loose his ability to think independently?

Acutely aware that the local was starting to wear off around the wound on his arm, Starsky hunched forward, trying to stave off the inevitable. The ache was distant still, but it would soon be howling at him and this conversation wasn't helping matters.

"And if you had damaged my property, I would have good reason to punish. But right now, I don't."

"No," Starsky whispered, wishing he could twist around enough in the carseat to reach out to Hutch, but just leaning against the upholstery shot arrows of pain up his arm.

"I'm sorry, Hutch. I saw Waters, and knew that was the only chance to catch him. Who knows what he could have done? Maybe he was in the bar, trolling for some girl to rape, huh? I couldn't let that happen."

"And what if he'd killed you and I hadn't gotten there fast enough?" Hutch said so forlornly Starsky ignored the pain and leaned over to grab his hand, kiss his wan face.

Hutch's hands came up fast to cup Starsky's cheeks, hold him there for the length of the kiss. Starsky kissed his partner's soft lips, then both eyes, tasting the salty tears on the pale lashes.

"I'm sorry, Hutch." He turned his head, kissing the palm that caressed his stubbly cheek, but by now the pain in his left arm had reached a crescendo pitch and he pulled back with a groan.

"Now, I'm sorry," Hutch winced in sympathy. "The local must have worn off, huh?"

"Feels like it." Starsky closed his eyes, riding the wave of pain to the shore. He panted briefly as things subsided, including the erection that had blossomed with the kissing. "Guess I messed up our weekend, huh? No rough stuff and no hanging by the arms?" Truly, the last one didn't completely disappoint him. Something about being naked and suspended was inherently frightening, even when Hutch was the person in charge. Starsky always had to fight back his less than pleasant memories of being in the hands of the likes of Simon Marcus and other unsavory characters.

"It can still be salvaged." Hutch looked speculative. He tried the ignition key again and the car purred to life, sweet as you please. Putting the car into gear, Hutch drove out of the parking lot. "I'd already planned to do some work on training and obedience."

"Obedience training? On a leash, like a dog?" Starsky protested picturing himself trotting along side Hutch in a ring. He wasn't sure he liked that image.

"No leash, just a collar," Hutch intoned in what Starsky'd always referred to as his 'Bela Lugosi' voice. "But maybe I could teach you to heel, follow commands."

"You're just hilarious, you know that? You should take that act on TV."


Starsky found himself bored out of his skull after only two days of sick leave and finally showed up at the precinct squadroom just for the camaraderie. Hutch was out on patrol, reportedly re-questioning some of Charley Waters' victims to cement the case the D.A was building. Since he'd been hoping to grab a quick lunch with his favorite partner, Starsky found himself with nothing to do even at the department. Dobey made it abundantly clear that since Starsky had injured the arm he used for writing, and more importantly to a cop, holding a gun, he was to stay off the job for three days, according to the department's own physician.

"Rules are rules, son," Dobey had said, stomping off to find his own midday repast.

"Rules were meant to be broken," Starsky muttered under his breath, thinking at the same time that, as a slave, those were punishable words. He had a feeling that he'd regularly be in about the same amount of trouble with his master as he tended to be with Internal Affairs. Namely, most of the time.

When the phone rang, Starsky picked it up automatically. "Dave Starsky here."

"Starsky! I thought you were on sick leave," Assistant District Attorney Lisa Hartman said happily. "Are you feeling better?"

"I am, but that don't count for squat around here," he lamented. "What do you need, schweetheart?"

"I need to get some preliminary statements from you and Hutch on Charley Waters. This case has to be airtight so we can nail him to a cell in San Quentin," Lisa declared.

"And I know you're the woman to do it," Starsky teased. "Hutch ain't here right now, but I've got nothing but time on my hands. How 'bout lunch?"

"I think I can squeeze you in," she giggled. "I have to be in court in half an hour. It won't take long. How 'bout at the Judge's Chambers across the street at 1:30? You know where that is?"

"I've been there," Starsky agreed. It was a popular restaurant for all the legal types because of its close proximity to the courthouse. "Great big burgers."

"If I'm late, just order one for yourself and get me a vegetarian soup and salad combo, maybe pea soup or potato--on the DA's tab of course, since we're talking business."

"Great," Starsky enthused, thinking of a few other topics he might introduce if there was time.


Wearing her requisite courtroom attire, a navy pin striped suit over a white silk blouse with a floppy bow at the neck, Lisa Hartman breezed into the restaurant about ten minutes late. Starsky looked on with amusement as nearly every man at the long marble bar turned to watch Lisa's passage. Boy, most of them would be surprised to discover the petite woman's predilection for kink and that she lived with a woman. The only outward sign that she might be a trifle different than some of the other female attorneys was a pair of arch-killing five inch stiletto heels with tiny little buckles at the back of the ankle. Thinking those must be murder to walk on all day long in court, Starsky had to wonder if they had been Lisa's choice, or Caress'.

"Hello, hello." Lisa plunked down into the chair with a sigh. "Idiot prosecuting attorney had to argue about a plea bargain we'd already agreed on. Fool." She dumped her bulging briefcase into the extra chair, taking a long sip from the iced tea the waitress delivered just as she sat down. "Thanks for ordering, saves me a lot of time."

"Y'know, I have to admit, it's hard for me to reconcile this Lawyer Hartman with the Lisa I saw a couple of weeks ago." Starsky laughed uncomfortably. He remembered seeing her kneeling at the dominatrix Caress' feet, then standing to show him and Hutch her recently whipped bottom.

"Do you think it will influence our professional relationship?" Lisa asked gravely, looking up from digging through her files.

"No, I can get past that. It's just...weird, y'know, since we used to date. Then I knew you as an attorney and now I know a different side to Lisa. One that kinda surprised me, since you didn't seem like the type."

"Is there a type?" Lisa asked shrewdly.

"Touché," Starsky agreed, pausing while the waitress returned laden with a quarter pound of hamburger on a huge bun with a mound of French fries on the side and a small bowl of pea soup and a mixed green salad.

"And what about you, David Starsky? Are you the type?" Lisa blew delicately on her spoonful of soup.

"Maybe," Starsky hedged. Neither of them had used a single inflammatory word to describe what they were discussing, but he was acutely aware that there were unfriendly ears everywhere.

"You and Hutch never could take your eyes off each other," Lisa observed dryly.

"You knew?" Starsky paused with his hamburger halfway to his mouth.

"No, not really, not until now," she dimpled.

"Lawyers can always con ya into a confession," Starsky grumbled.

"And that's my cue to get on with business." Lisa nodded briskly, pushing a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear. "Tell me about seeing Charley Waters; how did you know it was him?"

Discussing the case over the course of the meal Starsky noted that Lisa ate approximately half of her small cup of soup and speared only a few lettuce leaves into her mouth. She drank iced tea without any sweetener and declined dessert, telling the waitress she was full.

"You barely touched the food; that's what you asked me t'order, isn't it?" Starsky spooned sugar into his coffee.

"I' weight training, I guess you could call it," Lisa shoved her paperwork back into her briefcase.

"You don't weigh more'n a minute now," Starsky protested, taking in her trim figure for the second time.

"For Caress."

"Oh, what, she wants you t'starve t'death?" He couldn't imagine subsisting on such a small amount of food. He had sympathy hunger pangs just thinking about it.

"No, it's only short term." Lisa sighed as a waitress carried a serving of chocolate cake to a customer across the room. "For tight lacing."

"Every time I think I gotta handle on the terminology, somebody throws me a new one," Starsky rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. "What's tight lacing, if I'm allowed to ask."

"Starsky, you and I are on the same side, so to speak. You can ask me anything." She patted her flat belly then guided his hand down to feel the hard surface under her blouse. "I'm wearing a daytime corset. It's laced so I don't have a lot of room inside, but I'm comfortable enough to work. When I get home, Caress changes it for a tighter one. I'm tightly laced for the night and in the morning I get this one back. Except on weekends, then it's 48 hours of practically holding my breath 'cause the stays are so tight."

"That sounds barbaric!" Starsky exclaimed, feeling the ridges of the stays that held her erect. "You didn't have that on when we were there."

"No, like I said, it's only for a short time. Six weeks, give or take. Caress wants me down to a seventeen inch waist."

"God, I could just about put both my hands around you then."

"That's kind of the point," Lisa laughed, holding onto her side to take a deep breath after the giggles subsided. "It's for a slave competition. Kind of like the scene's version of the Olympics."

"And a seventeen inch waist'll win you a gold?" Starsky asked dubiously.

"Probably not, but a sixteen inch might." She smiled ruefully. "I came in third last year and Caress wants a second or first this time."

"And what happens if you don't win?"

"I think you can figure that one out," Lisa answered soberly.

"Does that scare you?" All he could think about was Caress saying that her slaves liked strict discipline and asked for more. Did that mean Lisa actually liked the whip?

"Sort of, but I'm used to it." She arched her eyebrows.

"And doesn't that tight lacing hurt?"

"Sometimes I cry," she admitted. "But this is my choice. It's the way I want to live my life."

"Sometimes, I dunno, I can't get behind it all." Starsky leaned his cheek on curved fingers, fiddling with his spoon. "I mean, I like it when I'm there and then when I'm not, it's...scary as hell. I kinda wonder why other people would do this to themselves."

"Starsky," Lisa said sharply, her lawyer voice on as anger colored her words. "I've been doing this for several years now and very few people know about my private life. I agreed to reveal myself to you and Hutch because I trusted you two and I really admired Carlysle. Was I wrong to believe you could keep my secret?"

"Hey, simmer down." Starsky waved his hands as if clearing the air. "I was just blowing smoke there. I'm the last person to want anyone pokin' their noses into any closets in my house."

"I'm sorry." She wrinkled up her button nose. "My feet are killing me today and I'm really hungry still."

"I could slip you some French fries under the table," Starsky offered, holding up two limp ones.

"No, I don't dare. It's like she can smell them my breath," Lisa groaned melodramatically. "I'd better get back. Meeting with the D.A. at three."

"Hey, what are my two favorite people taking about?" Hutch sauntered across the now nearly deserted restaurant, waving.

"How'd you know where to find us?" Starsky grinned, sliding in the booth to give Hutch room.

"Called Lisa's office to tell her what I'd been doing this morning and they directed me here." Hutch pushed over until he was nearly on top of Starsky, curling his right foot around Starsky's left one under the table.

"Did you track down all three of Waters' victims?" Lisa asked eagerly. "We've had a hell of a time getting in touch with Melissa Simpson."

"Yeah, she's not interested in testifying at his trial," Hutch agreed, referring to the second woman raped.

"Damn." Lisa drummed her fingers on the table. "She made up a lot of our case. Kerry Yantikova couldn't give a very reliable description, but her rape kit came up positive for his blood type and sperm. Simpson gave the best description, and she was positive for his sperm, as well. Natalie Kusko, who called me the second she heard Waters was arrested, took a shower before reporting her attack to the police so we can't get him on rape for that one, only aggravated assault."

"Yeah, she's out for blood, too. I guess pointing out the error of her shower didn't exactly endear me to her, either."

"She rip into you?" Starsky laughed.

"I'm surprised you can't see the marks her nails left," Hutch said dryly. "But Melissa Simpson is the opposite, just wants to put the whole incident behind her."

"I suggested she go to rape counseling. Did she go?" Lisa mused.

"She really didn't want to talk to me," Hutch shrugged.

"I'd better go give her a call," Lisa stood, smoothing her navy blue jacket down over her flat abdomen. "I'll talk to you guys soon, huh?"

"I'm coming over next week to train with Caress," Hutch said.

"Oh, then there will be some fun ahead," Lisa smirked, then trotted off on her spikes.

"You need a lift?" Hutch turned back to his partner.

"Got my car outside, didn't you see it?"

"That striped tomato did look vaguely familiar," Hutch conceded. "Then you can follow me."

"Where we goin'?" Starsky purred, admiring the way Hutch's cords pulled snugly over his thighs as he slid out of the booth.

"My place, unless you have objections."

"None at all, you're just acting kinda strange."

Hutch gave a short laugh, pushing open the door of the restaurant. "To tell the truth, I just haven't seen you have lunch with a woman in a long time."

"Hutch!" Starsky barked, swinging around to look him in the face. "Me and Lisa? That was business, you know that!"

"You were together once." Hutch reminded, resting an elbow on the top on Starsky's Gran Torino.

"For about five seconds, years ago."

"I know, it's stupid."

"Yeah, t'think that me and, I can think of a much better combo." Starsky reached into his front jeans pocket, his fingers undulating under the tight blue fabric like fat worms working their way across his groin. "Where'd I put those keys?"

"Usually in your jacket pocket." Hutch shook with laughter, shoving his hand into Starsky's leather jacket. "Found 'em."

"What would I do without you?"

"Clean your gun?" Hutch asked. "First one home's a...." His words were lost in the revving of Starsky's engine just before the sleek red car sped off. He chuckled to himself, unlocking his own car door. "Now he'll never know."


Starsky had his head in the refrigerator when Hutch finally arrived. "What'd you do, stop for a drink?" Starsky called out, peering over the white metal door. "Oh, yeah, you did!" he grinned in delight, going over to relieve the blond of his burdens. "What'd you get?"

"Mostly organic seaweed, raw fish, some chopped vegetables..." Hutch listed, pulling out a six-pack of Japanese beer.

"Hutch, I can't eat any of that!"

"Sushi, dummy. You liked it the last time I got it. Said the wasabe mustard cleared your sinuses."

"You said that," Starsky countered, popping off the cap of a beer. "My sinuses have always been wide open."

"Like other parts of your anatomy?" Hutch grinned, clinking beer bottles with his best friend. "Starsk, you make it too easy."

"Didja get me some California rolls?" Starsky dug into the bags, ignoring Hutch's amusement.

"Yes, and because I take pity on your less-than-sophisticated tastes, you can have the fried tempura and I'll eat all the sashimi."

"Isn't that raw salmon and tuna?" Starsky grimaced, then snatched a quick kiss. "I figure your breath'll smell like the beach at low tide after we eat, I'd better get in a few good ones now."

"You're just filled with sweet little endearments tonight." Hutch returned the kiss with interest, exploring some of Starsky's oral cavities with his tongue.

"Just call 'em like they are." Starsky ground his pelvis into Hutch's leg, his breath rate beginning to accelerate.

"Too bad I passed on the blow fish." Hutch put his beer on the kitchen counter, so he could pull Starsky closer in for further exploration. "It's highly poisonous, but in small quantities it's supposed to be delicious and it leaves a curious tingle in your lips."

"That ain't the part of my body that's tingling." Starsky giggled, sucking on Hutch's bottom lip. "My jeans are so tight I'm losing the feeling in my legs."

"Can't have that." Hutch made quick work of the zipper and started pushing Starsky's jeans down.

"I've been undressing myself for years," Starsky protested weakly. "You take care of yourself and we'll both be naked in a couple of seconds." He wormed out of Hutch's embrace, leading the way to the bedroom.

"Sounds like a plan," Hutch agreed, quickly completing his task. Turning out the bedside lamp, Hutch lit a cluster of lumpy, half-burned candles that sat in a pool of hardened wax on a plate. The flickering flames danced creating wavering shadows on the walls and the faces of the two men. Hutch grinned up at Starsky as he lay back on the pillow, obviously enjoying the sight of his lover wearing nothing but a silver chain and a diamond. The earring sparkled in the candlelight when Starsky turned his head to grin back at his lover. Starsky's prominent erection was so heavy he should have toppled forward, but Hutch's hands on his hips kept him steady as Starsky swung his leg over and straddled the blond.

"I could look at that diamond all night," Hutch murmured running the tips of his fingers through Starsky's chest hair. "I almost wish we could have it pierced again just so I could see your face the first time you saw that thing in your ear." He stroked his lover's cheek, then reached back to caress the jewel nestled in the fleshy part of his lobe.

Starsky shivered. The hole had healed so that it no longer twinged when Hutch turned the post but just the touch of Hutch's hand sent chills down his spine. "That was pain you saw," he joked, arching forward so that the head of his cock brushed Hutch's chest.

"No, it was incredible: was love."

"It is love," Starsky swooped down to kiss Hutch's lips. "I want to be in you."

"You will be." Hutch spread his legs, tipping his pelvis up so his buttocks were more available.

Positioning himself directly over his target, Starsky liberally applied a slick lubricant to his cock and the opening of his partner's anus. Without too much effort he easily slid into the warm sheath, groaning as the tight muscles clamped down on him. It always amazed Starsky that Hutch accepted him much more easily that he accepted Hutch's bulk. Already Hutch was scissoring his legs around Starsky's waist and hooking his feet behind him to lock the two of them closer together. There was no look of pain on his handsome face, just an open-mouthed awe. Starsky thrust forward into the warm tunnel, still partially distracted by this phenomenon. No matter what position they used, when Hutch entered him, it hurt. That didn't last very long, but the fact was there.

"Hey, you going somewhere?" Hutch gasped, obviously close to climaxing.

"To the moon." Starsky banished secondary thoughts with a jerk of his pelvis, "And I'm taking you with me." He grabbed Hutch's hands, pulling him up so that they balanced together like two children on a teeter-totter. When he gave a last hard thrust Hutch countered the move by pushing forward, jamming Starsky further up inside than he had ever gone before. They both jumped off the edge together, their momentum toppling Starsky onto his back with Hutch's ankles still locked behind him.

"The trip was worth it, even if the visit was way too short," Hutch panted trying to extricate himself from the tangle of body parts.

"One giant step for me and thee," Starsky giggled. "Ow!" he batted at Hutch's flailing foot after it accidentally kicked him in the head. Scooting over to avoid further altercations with flying limbs, he melted into the pillows. "You wore me out."

"I wore you out?" Now untangled, he reached out to pull Starsky into his arms. "You're the beast tonight, but how's your arm? Probably shouldn't have gotten so physical."

"Feels fine," Starsky said distracted by the way the candles highlighted his lover's blond hair. He wove his fingers through the silky fine white gold. "Don't you know that sex is a natural pain reliever?"

"So I've heard," Hutch smirked, cupping his hand around the gauze encircling Starsky's left bicep. "But you weren't wearing your sling at the restaurant..."

"Hutch," Starsky left off his hair stroking, confronting the sky blue eyes inches from his darker ones with frustration. "Would you wear one of those things to lunch with a beautiful woman?"

"So, you do find her attractive."

"Where is this coming from?" Starsky jumped off the bed in annoyance. "Are you really jealous of Lisa, cause there ain't a...a molecule of reason t'be."

"Not even a molecule?" Hutch had closed his expression down to a cool exterior. He cocked his head, waiting for an answer and looked suddenly endearingly like a lonely puppy waiting in the window of the pet shop.

Starsky started humming "How much is that doggy in the window." "No. When I look at you, how could there be?" He sat down on the bed, legs curled up under him Indian style.

"I've hurt you, babe, sometimes badly. I get jealous--not just of Lisa, but..."

"Whoa, I thought we had a pact. No mention of the 'K' woman in this apartment," Starsky teased. The woman who had caused the falling out between him and Hutch was strictly a verboten subject, but he realized that in a weird way, she had probably only sealed their fates. Kira had made both realize that they wanted the same things in life and it wasn't the same woman. It was each other. If he hadn't gotten mortally wounded only a few days later, they probably would have gotten together much faster--before the summer of '79 had passed. As it was, with his recovery and emotional instability, their ultimate joining hadn't occurred until January of 1980. So here it was a whole two years later and Hutch was still scared that Starsky wasn't fully committed?

"I never said a thing." Hutch smiled shyly. "I just worry that you'll get scared of what's happening here and want to back out."

"Nothing going on here 'cept two guys getting it on." Starsky waggled his eyebrows in a Groucho Marx leer. "And I'm all for that. Can't get rid of me that easily. I was planning to stay until the final curtain."

"Starsky! You know what I'm talking about."

"You mean that clandestine alternate lifestyle we've be pursuing on the sly?" Starsky rubbed the flat of his hand across Hutch's strong thigh, totally forgiving any jealousy Hutch had ever exhibited. "I'm still all for it, Hutch. You haven't scared me away and it won't happen."

"You know things could get more intense from here on in." Hutch sucked in a deep breath, Starsky's massage causing goosebumps to rise up along the inside of his legs.

"I had that impression. Somethin' t'do with training and obedience."

"I was going to go for a really heavy session this weekend, but you kind of forced a change of plans." Hutch ran both hands up the underside of Starsky's outstretched arms, skimming past the bandage and closing his large fingers around Starsky's broad torso. "I was going to have you wearing butt plugs for a few hours every night this week to culminate with the fisting on Saturday, but that'll change to next week, along with the punishment session."

"Like I could forget that one." Starsky closed his eyes, relaxing as Hutch kneaded his shoulder muscles. "I think I can live without being smacked for another week or so."

"Starsk, you know I will never intentionally hurt you, harm you," Hutch said so urgently Starsky opened up his eyes to find his partner staring at him intently. "If I caused you pain, it would only be..."

"Hutch, I know." Starsky pointed to his heart. "Physical pain passes, what's in here won't ever change."

"God, I hope not, because I couldn't live without it."

"Hutch, pain is part of the scene. I've totally accepted that. I think you're the one who has a hard time dolin' it out."

"Yeah, that's why I've got to go work out with Caress."

"Now who's going to get jealous?" Starsky asked coyly. "You'll be spendin' time with her instead of with me?"

"You'll have a little something to remember me, right up your beautiful ass. Couple hours every night."

"Damn." Starsky squirmed when Hutch's finger wormed its way around to the opening he was referring to. Butt plugs were maddening things, hard and unforgiving, rammed up inside like alien invaders just masquerading as a real live cock. "I'd rather have you."

"And you will have," Hutch made a fist, punching slightly up against Starsky's buttocks for emphasis. "Have to be stretched, Gumby...every night."

"Sound's a lot like what Lisa's going through." Starsky described the tight lacing to a fascinated Hutch.

"A BDSM Olympics, huh? I'll have to ask Caress about that. Want to go?"

"In what capacity? Cause I ain't modeling corsets, if that's what you mean."

"You'd look so cute," Hutch teased, tickling the puckered hole between Starsky's butt cheeks. "Gorgeous ass sticking out from under black leather, maybe nipple clamps with a chain hooked to your boner. I'd pay money to see that."

"You're seriously depraved, you know that?"

"I'm not depraved, I'm deprived," Hutch deliberately misquoted the song "Officer Krupky" from "West Side Story."

"Must mean you're a Jet an' I'm one a'the Sharks and we gotta rumble," Starsky proposed with a naughty grin. "But I'm kinda sticky from the last go round. You got a fire hose there. Last one in the shower gets to eat raw fish for dinner."

"Well, then you'd better get there first, or I'll collect on that bet." Hutch jumped off the bed in time to grab Starsky as he tried to slip into the bathroom door. There was much lighthearted scuffling and once the shower turned on, a fairly acrobatic rendition of the opening number from the modern day New York gang version of Romeo and Juliet.


"What did the doctor say?" Hutch asked when Starsky finally emerged from Dr. Davies' exam room with a fresh bandage on his left arm and a small Band-Aid over the puncture wound in the crook of his right elbow. Hutch had a nearly identical Band-Aid on his left arm.

"Took out the stitches, no infection, healing well, he'll call us back if the blood tests come back positive for any sexually transmitted diseases." Starsky struggled to pull on his leather jacket until Hutch helpfully pulled the sleeve right side out. "Which I don't think is possible, since it's been way over two years since I was with anyone else. Not since...her."

Hutch nodded no need to explain who "her" was. His betrayal of Starsky still hurt deeply, twisting in his soul whenever he tried to pull it out and examine his motives. Why had he slept with a woman his best friend had professed to love? What kind of a monster does that to their closest buddy? It had been a vindictive, cruel act and the only reason he could even give to explain himself is that he'd wanted to break them up. To take Starsky away from Kira. To get him away from Kira, because she had been bad news. And, beneath it all, had been a probably unconscious desire to have his curly-haired partner to himself. He hadn't fully realized his love for Starsky until he'd seen him lying there, white and unmoving, covered in bandages after hours of surgery to remove the bullets. That driving love had hit Hutch in the chest much in the same way as the bullets had pierced Starsky and he'd known he would never recover. Kira had been the last woman for both of them.

"Hutch, did you...while I was in the hospital?" Starsky questioned as if suddenly shy.

"Was I with anyone else?" Hutch asked, aghast. "Starsk, you nearly died. I didn't even think about it."

"I thought about you, all the time when I was lying in that damned bed." Starsky frowned ruefully at the memory. "My head was turned on and the rest of me just lay there like road kill. Couldn't get it up for months."

"Like road kill?" Hutch teased. "How bout you and me, at the Estate, doin' it in the middle of the street, right out in front of God and everybody? That get your juices stirring?"

"Oh, boy, not just my juices," Starsky groaned. Hutch laughed as he watched Starsky's jeans grow visibly tighter in a few seconds.

"The doctor told me we could use this room after you were finished." Hutch opened a door just off the main hall of exam rooms.

"I don't think I it in the doctor's office!" Starsky whispered in horror.

"Just get in here." Hutch grabbed his belt loop to pull him inside. "To change clothes, Einstein."

"Oh." Starsky twisted his neck to look around the room, almost falling backward when Hutch let go of him. "Hey! He must use this room for--uh--counseling BDSMers, maybe?"

"Something like that." Hutch was unpacking a small carryall, draping the clothing and leather goods on the counter. Unlike the other exam rooms with the usual medical supplies such as blood pressure cuffs, thermometers and bandaging paraphernalia, this one was stocked with items of a more kinky nature. It wasn't quite as well equipped as a cupboard at the Estate, but there was enough of a variety of sex toys and books to illustrate any situation that might arise.

"I wonder how he got into this line a'work?" Starsky pondered, peering at a poster showing some unusual sexual positions.

"Went to medical school?" Hutch paused in his work to watch Starsky. His partner's insatiable curiosity was one of the things that endlessly fascinated him. Starsky was interested in everything, and it was an especially useful trait when they were investigating a suspect. Quite frequently Hutch would start in interrogating the unlucky soul while Starsky would roam the room looking for clues, or just anything that jumped out at him. More often than not, he found what he was looking for, probably without even knowing he'd been looking for it at all.

"I mean the scene!" Starsky reached out to touch a leather facemask on a mannequin head but stopped at the last second. "You know; what turned him on?"

"You'll turn me on once you change into these," Hutch said. "C'mon, time's wasting. You want to get something done today or not?"

"Just wondering about Dr. Davies." Starsky regarded the pile of leather with the wide-eyed look of a virgin about to be sacrificed to the gods. "You want me to wear that out in public?"

"It's Friday. From here on out we're on the clock." Hutch picked up a small item that looked like an oddly shaped leather belt with attachments hanging off. "You belong to me until tomorrow afternoon, right?"

"Yeah." Starsky began unbuttoning his 501's. "I just wasn't expectin' a new wardrobe."

"To get you in the mood."

"That ain't all that hard," Starsky punned, freeing his cock from his pants. It was rock solid and nearly fully extended.

Just looking at it nearly made Hutch come in his slacks, but he shook off those thoughts, cloaking himself more securely in his dominant personality. "This goes on first, under the leather pants."

"I'm not sure how to put that thing on." Starsky had removed all his clothes except for a pale blue shirt. It was unbuttoned with the tail hanging down over his buttocks.

"I was planning on helping," Hutch chuckled. "But take off the shirt and turn around."

"Oh, it's like that, huh?" Starsky did as instructed, bending over the counter without being asked. Hutch guided the black belt around his hips, buckling it in the back. Two medium width leather straps hung down on each side, one in the front and one directly over the asshole. After he'd carefully lubed up a rubber anal plug, Hutch began to gently insert it into Starsky's back opening. It was bigger than the smallest one he'd ever used on Starsky but smaller than the one they'd both nicknamed 'Big Red' so he had no problem seating it completely inside his slave. Starsky moaned with arousal, his fingers clutching the counter tightly. "How long?" Starsky asked hoarsely when Hutch fit the strap through the slit in the base of the plug and tightened it significantly.

"'Til we get to the Estate." Hutch worked the strap between his legs and then turned Starsky around to work on the front half. "We've got a few errands to do before them."

"You live to torment me," Starsky said, watching the proceedings with obvious interest but keeping his hands on the counter. Hutch smiled to himself as he worked. Starsky was already beginning to follow the rules of the game without even being told. From now on his own body was off limits to him and only accessible to his master.

"It's my pleasure." Hutch pushed Starsky's dick up against the widest part of the belt so it was flat against his belly, wrapping three small straps around the base, middle and head and velcroing them closed. He then helped Starsky into a pair of jet black leather pants that fit like glove leather. The imprisoned cock was prominently displayed like a present wrapped in kidskin just waiting to be opened. It literally made Hutch's mouth water. He shook out a black tee and watched as Starsky pulled it over his head and smoothed out the wrinkles. The shirt was so tight Hutch almost zoned out, completely mesmerized by the movement of pectoral muscles and ribcage every time Starsky took a breath.

"L-looks good, Herc," Hutch praised, his cock near to bursting. He turned away, ostensibly to pick up the motorcycle jacket that completed the outfit but he also used the cover to wrap his fist around his hard shaft to cool his raging libido. It didn't look good for the master to be creaming his slacks in front of the slave. What kind of discipline did that display?

"If I'm Hercules," Starsky flexed a bicep, "then, you must be Zeus."

"I hope not." Hutch laughed, glad for the distracting banter. "He was Hercules' father if I remember my Greek mythology correctly. I'd rather be Apollo, or Eros the god of love."

"Yeah...I'll go with that one." Starsky gave a throaty growl, moving forward in his leather gear with feral grace.

"Uh-uh." Hutch gathered up the old clothes to avoid Starsky's advances. "Errands first. I'm going to drop you off at Leather Jungle with a list. When you're done, go over to the café next door to wait for me. I'll meet you at 12:30."

"You're leaving me there by myself?" Starsky cried in dismay. "Where'll you be?"

"I have a few errands of my own. There's a couple of things I called to have put aside for me. You select what's on this list and just have Rex tally up the total. I've got credit there."

"I'll bet you do," Starsky snorted.


Just the idea of going into Leather Jungle alone left Starsky with a dry mouth and sweaty palms. The one and only time he'd been there before was to have his ear pierced, and Hutch had been at his side. But now all he had was the somatic memory of Hutch's fingers tapping him twice on the arm, just above his fresh bandage. That was their code for Starsky to drop into his submissive headspace. There he was Hutch's slave, his plaything; his for Hutch to command and Hutch had commanded him to pick out the items on the list. Since Starsky wasn't given any alternative except to do what he'd been directed to do, he ventured inside the fetish emporium. Feeling very exposed, he imagined everyone in the place knew exactly why he was there and what he intended to do with his purchases. This was a totally paranoid attitude, he realized, but his spine still crawled when he lifted his head to check out the store's interior. In reality, no one even looked up at the man standing just inside the door pretending to examine a display of books on the fine art of erotic Japanese knot tying.

Friday morning must be the day to shop because Leather Jungle was doing a booming business. Unless everyone in the place was just browsing, most people were there for exactly the same reason as Starsky; to pick up good quality fetish wear of the kinkier nature. His nervousness settling, Starsky advanced further into the shop, amazed at the wide representation of the general population all gathered in one place. A heavy set man wearing a business suit watched intently as a Leather Jungle employee fitted a pretty young girl, possibly the suit's slave judging by the expensive gold collar she wore around her neck, in death-defying red patent leather six inch spike heels with gold locks on the ankle buckles.

Nearby, a couple who looked barely out of their teens giggled over their choice of wristcuffs, discussing the relative merits of purple with red polka dots over white patent leather with shocking pink fur lining. In the back, at the piercing booth, a buxom lady showed off her newly pierced nipples to an admiring woman wearing an itsy-bitsy halter top to display the elaborate tattoo of Tinker Belle on her lower back.

Okay, Starsky thought, reading over the list Hutch had given him. How hard could this be? Just like grocery shopping. Only every item he was to purchase was to be used on him and some of the items--maybe even most of them--might cause some discomfort if not outright pain. Even so, the anticipation of the afternoon's play session gripped him with excitement. There was no adequate reason why he enjoyed BDSM, and especially bondage, so much. It just fulfilled a deep longing inside him and he wasn't willing to try to dissect the answer any further than that.

Hutch had written four things on the narrow slip of paper. The first three were the most scary; a crop, a leather flogger and a broad leather strap. All instruments that could cause a maximum of sexual pleasure and equal amounts of intense pain. The pain was what Starsky had the most trouble with. Why would anyone willingly allow themselves to be tied down and beaten? He had no answer, but found himself in front of a display of whips and other implements of discipline.

God, how did Hutch expect him to choose? This wasn't fair! There must be something written down that said this was the master's job, wasn't it? His belly fluttering with dread, Starsky put a tentative hand on the smooth leather of a broad flat strap. That wasn't so bad, he reasoned. It was just an old piece of cow's hide or something. But in Hutch's hands it would have the power to caress his body with silky sweetness or snap down with a fearsome bite that could leave Starsky howling.

Who in their right minds could stand here and choose which one to buy? Hutch was always joking that Starsky was rarely in his right mind, so it was up to him, apparently. The flogger, which he had never seen before, fascinated him. It had a braided handle with a tail of soft suede fringe. How much could that hurt? It was like a suede feather duster. Probably much more likely to make Starsky giggle.

After much deliberation involving holding each of several versions of floggers, crops and straps in his hand to determine their heft and how they felt when he swished them ineffectively through the air Starsky picked out three. He wasn't positive they were what Hutch might have chosen but he was prepared to explain his choices if asked. The only thing he couldn't say was how they'd feel when raked across his bare skin. He'd tested the crop on the palm of his hand and even a small flick of the thin, flat leather had stung.

The one saving grace about the whole shopping expedition was knowing that these things would not be used on him this afternoon. Since Dr. Davies had put restrictions on the activities, Hutch had promised no punishments until Starsky's arm healed up. And right now, despite the fact that having the stitches removed hadn't given Starsky so much as a twinge, his arm was aching like a sore tooth. Must have something to do with standing next to all those whips. Gathering up his selections, Starsky piled them on the counter where Rex, the owner, indicated and turned to another area of the store.

Time was growing short and he still had to decide on a butt plug. Decisions; more decisions. Starsky had never before realized how many different designs there could be for a single sex toy. There were broad ones, flat ones, long ones and fat ones. Some lit up, or had horse tails attached. Others were shaped like cartoon characters and anatomically correct phalluses. Every color of the rainbow abounded and several were clear glass like beautiful, erotic sculptures. Unlike the whips, though, this time his search was made a bit easier because Hutch had given Starsky dimensions. 6 inches long and 2 3/4 inches wide. A monster, although Starsky had a secret kind of pride that he could get something like that up inside him. The one already nestled inside his back canal was beginning to make its presence known every time Starsky shifted his weight. When Hutch had first stuck it inside Starsky was surprised to find that he'd somehow grown accustomed to butt plugs. What a weird concept to realize that he didn't find it uncomfortable as hell to have a foreign body in his asshole. The current one was just the right size for him to live with and at least partially ignore, but it had been in there a while now. Surely there was an hour or more left on the time limit before Hutch drove them out to the Estate and pulled the plug, literally. Starsky clenched his aching butt muscles and grabbed the first anal plug that matched the dimensions Hutch had specified.

The café next door to Leather Jungle was an eclectic mix of patrons of the fetish emporium and the bohemian artsy types who lived in the surrounding neighborhood. Bent wood chairs cozied up to round tables covered with short black tablecloths. The framed prints on the wall were mostly movie and theater posters, and it wasn't until they were really studied closely that it would be noticed that all had a bondage or kinky theme. Starsky stood on tiptoes to see around a massive ficus that had taken the tiny waiting area hostage allowing only a narrow passage from the door to the dining room. Hutch was already at a table near the back and had apparently ordered. Starsky laughed at the weird turnaround this was to his lunch with Lisa earlier in the week. She'd been restricted in her lunch choices because of her corset wearing. He wondered if Hutch had ordered some food for Starsky based on the rubber stopper plugging up his backside.

Luckily, the meal on the table looked edible and Starsky realized he was ravenous. The one problem was sitting on the hard wooden café chairs with his little backdoor buddy. Even perching on the edge shoved the hard rubber further up inside, causing Starsky to wince when he settled back.

"You get everything I needed?" Hutch asked. He'd used the time to change from the usual workaday outfit he'd had on earlier, and now sported an aqua silk tee shirt paired with wheat colored jeans. Not as overtly sexy an ensemble as Starsky's but one that made David Starsky's heart skip a beat. Hutch, as always, looked like he should be starring in his own TV series or maybe just a series of magazine ads for the perfect image of a man. Tall, impossibly blond, the very personification of a Nordic god sent down to grace the lowly lives of Bay City Citizens. And Starsky was grateful for every moment he could spend with Hutch, that is, at least, 85 percent of the time, maybe even closer to 90 percent. But there were those days when that Hutchinson temper and glacier-cold stare swept over him, and he knew what prisoners in a gulag must feel like. This glorious Friday was not one of those days.

"Rex packed up everything, including the stuff you had put aside," Starsky answered, digging into his lunch. "What'd you get me? It's good."

"Waldorf salad and small clam chowder--light on the cream." Hutch was eating an identical meal so Starsky didn't quibble on the absence of what he considered real meat. Clam chowder was great, but it didn't quite measure up to a burger. And there were no beers, which didn't surprise Starsky at all since he knew the best way to keep the scene safe was to keep the booze to a minimum. Besides, he enjoyed the tart, pulpy homemade style lemonade that accompanied the meal.

"We leaving right after this?" Starsky speared a big chunk of apple and walnut, savoring the crunchy textures between his teeth.

"You in a hurry for some reason?" Hutch wiped his upper lip with a napkin, pretending to hide the smirk that lurked. "You're squirming like you got ants in your pants."

"Not exactly." Starsky rolled his eyes. Not only was his posterior causing him consternation, but it felt distinctly strange to sit with his legs close together and not feel the long, thick shape of his dick lodged in between. With it wedged up against his abdomen he found that every time he leaned forward sharp warning pains shot from bottom to top, threatening to strangle his manhood. It was quite the balancing act to find a reasonably comfortable position to sit in.

The service was impeccable at the café, which led Starsky to wonder if they were all slaves, or at least used to some pretty severe discipline. Their waiter had a friendly grin, remembered to bring out some freshly cut lemons for Hutch's cup of tea and maintained a perfect balance of staying out of their way while they were eating and hovering just close enough to deliver the check seconds after both had put down cutlery. He didn't appear to be wearing any apparent signs of BDSM, but the girl who took Hutch's credit card had pierced nipples linked by a gold chain showing plainly under her nearly see-thru lace top.

"That place run by Leather Jungle?" Starsky asked as they hacked their way past the looming ficus in the foyer.

"Yeah, it's where MAST has a lot of get togethers," Hutch pulled out a pair of stylish black sunglasses with leather side guards like skiers use. "You forgot your shades, little one."

Even more than the change of clothes at the doctor's office or the shopping orders, this was the signal that the day had truly begun. Starsky donned the blinders masquerading as sunglasses with the same rush of adrenaline as when he pushed the Torino's speedometer past 80 in a high-speed chase.


"You are to be naked at all times when inside the house," Hutch said, helping Starsky from the car in front of cabin number two on the Estate. "You will not speak unless spoken to, not look at me unless told to do so and be on your knees, or back, unless allowed otherwise. You are in deep, deep submission today. It is the beginning all over again of your life as a slave."

Starsky stood on unsteady feet, feeling a cobblestone path beneath his feet, the sunglasses still blinding him. Hutch's stern voice and long stream of orders were making him light headed and incredibly aroused. God, he would do anything to have that man make love to him at this moment, but he had a feeling that he was going to have to earn that privilege, most likely the hard way.

"Since we are not going to use a lot of heavy bondage because of your arm, it's a good day to work on mental restraints," Hutch continued, taking Starsky by the arm and leading him up a short flight of stairs to a porch. Starsky could hear the drumming sounds of their footprints as they crossed the wooden floorboards before stopping at the front door. "You are bound by my command, even without cuffs or chains. If I say you cannot move, you do not. Any deviation from my orders is an immediate demerit and you already have four from the previous sessions."

Starsky drank in his master's words, soaking them into his pores. This was his world right now, this and nothing else. He existed to satisfy Hutch, as a tool for his needs. The commands were harsh, slapping at his free will and self worth, but Starsky had enough of both to be able to surrender them up for a brief time to become the slave that Hutch wanted him to be. The weirdest thing was that the more powerful Hutch became the more Starsky wanted to yield to his demands. Had it been any other person or any other time Starsky would have been itching for a fight. Instead, he applied himself to stringently following every order to the letter.

Sinking to his knees the second he stepped over the threshold, Starsky immediately began to wrestle with his clothing. In a very short time he was naked, with leather jacket and pants folded neatly beside him. Hutch had not yet said he could remove the sunglasses so he waited, hands placed limply on his thighs, back straight and chin up. The picture of a patient slave. He almost felt patient, too, except for the tiny jumping beans doing the sombrero dance in his belly. Today was different. He and Hutch were no longer experimenting with BDSM; they were living with it. From the little he'd read, some slaves spent a goodly portion of their lives kneeling like this, waiting to be subjected to any manner of sexual stimuli from highly pleasurable to downright unpleasant. The anticipation is what got him. He'd never liked waiting, be it on a stakeout or for Hutch's direction. What was going to happen next?

Starsky could hear the blond man walking around putting supplies away and preparing for the day. He tried not to shift position off his knees but he wasn't used to staying in one place for so long and his knees were burning with fatigue already, not to mention the pressure in his anus. Clenching his fists against his legs Starsky raised up slightly to relieve the pins and needles tingling in his feet and to contract his butt muscles. How long was he going to have to wait? The little peaceful patience he'd managed dissipated like ice in the sun and Starsky started to fidget restlessly. He wasn't cut out for this kind of tension. This was madness. Hutch couldn't have forgotten about him, could he? A cramp that had started in his left foot was now working its way up his calf and threatening to destroy any composure Starsky had left. He nearly bit down on his bottom lip to keep from groaning out loud, tucking his chin down to tighten up his calf muscles in a sort of isometric exercise. The sunglasses slid partway down his nose and Starsky caught a tiny glimpse of gleaming mahogany wood and elegant Tiffany style lamps before a sharp voice caught him up short.


Hutch stood silently, examining his lover the way he might a statue at the museum or a fine work of art. How did Starsky manage to stay so incredibly fit, muscled and trim with the life he led? He didn't eat right, only worked out at the gym one or two days a week and that was usually because Hutch goaded him into it. And he got hurt so often it was a wonder he still had all of his original parts. But man, did he look good. Starsky's skin glowed in the amber light from a nearby stained glass lampshade, the black leather of the belt slung low on his hips a marvelous contrast to the Mediterranean-hued skin and abundant hair on his torso. His imprisoned cock had taken on a most alarming purplish hue, the tip cherry red above the confining black straps.

Smiling fondly, Hutch watched as Starsky tried to keep his perfect slave boy posture. For a few minutes there he'd managed to play the part to the hilt, kneeling in the presentation position with faultless precision. But all too soon Starsky started to wiggle, flexing his knees and curling under his toes in an apparent effort to alleviate that tingling that comes from kneeling in one place for too long. Wondering how long he could afford to keep Starsky waiting before there was a blow-up, Hutch almost missed the earliest signs, but saw his lover's fingers stretch and then fold into fists. Starsky was about at the end of his rope and it was time for some action.

"Stand up, take two steps forward, turn to your right and lean straight-armed against the wall," Hutch said sharply, not moving until Starsky had risen to his feet. He had to stomp them once or twice before following directions and positioning himself on the wall. "When I give you an order, you do exactly as I say," Hutch corrected coldly. "Your don't see to your own needs first, do you understand?" He slipped his fingers under the silver chain encircling Starsky's neck, twisting it around his forefinger until it tightened against his slave's throat. "No stomping your feet or trying to take a peek at the room, do you understand?"

"Y-yes, sir," Starsky kept his blinded gaze straight ahead of him, arms stiff and straight supporting his body against the wall.

Satisfied that Starsky was going to take this training day seriously, Hutch went to work on the black belt. He'd never made Starsky wear a butt plug for so long before, although he fully intended to increase the time over the next week before the fisting. Preparation and stretching were all-important with that planned activity. There was no way on earth he wanted to injure Starsky's rectum, but all the same, he felt a tiny bit sorry that he was forcing his slave to wear such an uncomfortable device. When he popped it out, Starsky groaned audibly, shuddering once.

Hutch's hands skimmed over Starsky's naked body, hovering a millimeter or so above his warm flesh, leaving a bare cushion of air between them, just the close proximity triggering arousal for both of them. "Did you think about me when you were standing in the store picking out a flogger?" Hutch whispered, his breath stirring the curls at the nape of Starsky's neck.

"Yes, and how it would feel on my skin," Starsky admitted.

"Were you hard?" Hutch grinned to himself, stroking down Starsky's flat abdomen to his groin. Starsky twitched but held his position when Hutch released his bound cock. Each velcoed strap opened with a loud ripping that made Starsky quiver, nearly toppling backward into his master. Hutch put steadying hands on his hips before doing away with the black belt.

"Every minute," Starsky sighed, the strain in his voice an obvious sign of how close he was to release. His limbs were trembling as Hutch placed flat palms on either side of his engorged phallus; not coming close enough to the needy organ to give Starsky the help he craved. "Please, master, I need..."

Hutch smiled. By the looks of things Starsky was more than hard, he had turned to plum-colored granite. He wanted to reach down and bring the man off with a slow milking, but first things first. The silver chain was the next order of business that had to be dealt with, and Hutch wasn't about to let his sub's pleas hurry his plans along. "Not yet, puppy, you have to wait until it's time."

Removing the necklace quickly, Hutch spent sweet time kissing and nuzzling the naked planes on Starsky's back and exploring uncharted regions just under the curls hanging down the back of his neck. Starsky's hair had gotten so long Hutch could gather it up into a loose ponytail. He carded the tangled ringlets into individual curls, rubbing his cheek in the soft locks. "You need a haircut, my prince."

Starsky's hair was definitely too long for the collar Hutch had brought so he fished a covered elastic band out of his bag of tricks and confined the curls to a tight queue like a Revolutionary War soldier.

The collar that Hutch fastened around his submissive's neck was different than the usual one, causing Starsky to tilt his neck back slightly so that it didn't choke him. Wider and thicker than the other collar, this one forced the slave's chin up and forward so that he couldn't bend his neck downward. "This is a posture collar," Hutch explained, locking the clasp in the back with a small padlock. "It prevents you from looking to either side and keeps your back in alignment. Does it feel any different?"

"It's tight." Starsky started to nod but the curved leather under his chin didn't allow that much movement. "I feel even more like a slave."

"Now, stand straight with your arms at your sides and turn to face me," Hutch instructed, watching Starsky's body language for any signs that the collar was hurting him. Tight was one thing but if it cut off his airway or pinched necessary blood vessels in the neck, it would have to be removed. When Starsky moved into place, Hutch slid the sunglasses off his lover's nose watching as Starsky blinked in the brightly lit room. "Who's collar do you wear?"

"Yours, master." Starsky automatically knelt in presentation again, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, his eyes staring at Hutch's shoes in deference to his servitude.

"And who do you belong to when you wear my collar?"

"Only you, Hutch; mind, body and soul," Starsky whispered reverently.

"And what is your safeword?" Hutch could hardly get the last of the ritual phrases out, his heart was so overcome with joy. That Starsky would give himself to him in this way was such an act of unselfish bravery. Most people reading raunchy S & M novels usually perceived the slave as the weak one who gave up all pride to bow to the haughty master. That or the submissive was forced into slavery by an abusive husband or lover. Starsky had done neither. This had been a mutual decision with each party taking on the role that suited his needs and desires. Hutch craved the power and control he couldn't wield in his every day life. Even as a cop on the street he was helpless to curb the violence and mayhem that plagued his city. He was able to put a plug in a small hole in the dike but it didn't stop the crime. Here, he was the only one in command, the dictator to a population of one. As the slave, Starsky freely gave up his own power, knowing he would get it back when necessary.

"Torino," Starsky answered promptly, acknowledging his one tool to stop any session that became too much or too painful.

"I love you," Hutch said simply, taking his love's face between his two hands. "Remember that always." He grinned at Starsky's slightly dazed expression. "There'll be a quiz at the end of the day and that's the final answer."

"Yes, my Hutch."

Beginning with the basics, Hutch lead Starsky through a series of slave positions, each arranging the slave's body in ways both pleasing to the master and keeping him open and ready to be used at all times. Starsky tried to follow instructions to the letter but some of the positions required yoga-like contortions and with the posture collar in place he couldn't bend as easily as usual.

"S'like boot camp," he mumbled darkly, leaning forward with his cheek on the ground, knees tucked under him and butt stuck up in the air.

"Two demerits," Hutch intoned. "One for talking, and one for attitude." But he could tell Starsky was tiring. They'd been practicing the moves for an hour without stop. "Back to presentation."

That one Starsky could fold himself into without difficulty and he perched on his heels, breathing heavily.

"I think you'll like what comes next a lot better." Hutch zoned out watching Starsky's heaving chest, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his nipples half hidden in their nests of fur. He idly considered having those pert nubs pierced, but dismissed the thought immediately because of Starsky's detective status. The earring was one thing, but pierced nipples denoted just one thing--sex. And Hutch didn't want any one getting the "right" idea about him and Starsky. Still, he could clamp those pretty brown pips with tiny silver vises any time he chose. It was breathtaking to realize he could do whatever he wanted to do to this gorgeous man and that it was not only allowed, but also encouraged by the slave. Although Hutch was fully aware that as much as he liked nipple clamps, they came in very low on Starsky's fav list. So, maybe a little later. Right now he needed to jolly Starsky into a slightly more receptive mood or he'd have a surly slave for the rest of the day and that would be no fun at all. "I'm going to go get the plug you bought and then we can get to the fun part. Go lie down on the bed with your legs spread wide. Star position."