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 I II: Working Out the Kinks in Late Models. Comments on this story can be sent to:



Starsky wasn't sure any longer if he wanted Hutch to hurry up or slow down. This was it--Hutch was going to stick his entire hand up inside a hole that didn't measure a full inch from one side to the other. Certainly, the inside was larger than the outside--kind of like the time machine on that weird British series "Dr. Who" the PBS station had started showing, but not as big as his master's hand. When Hutch first proposed fisting, Starsky had been completely against the idea, but after reading some of the books bought at Leather Jungle, he'd started to come around. One aficionado of what was termed "the ultimate in hand jobs" had described the practice in such glowing terms Starsky had become much more interested. The whole thing took on the mystique of a parlor trick--abracadabra, the hand disappears, where could it be?

"Oh, yeah... " Starsky shuddered as two fingers entered his hole, twisting and thrusting against the first tight ring. He let his head drop back on the leather pillow, staring up at the beveled skylight above. Fractured rainbows dappled the room as the sun climbed higher in the sky, painting Starsky's naked body in nature's hues. He hummed happily as Hutch's thumb joined the rest of its siblings, crowding all five digits into the narrow space.

"You doing all right?" Hutch asked, petting Starsky just behind his knee.

"Yeah, you've gone this far before, haven't you?"

"First time I've gotten the thumb all the way in." Hutch wiggled his hand, sending off tiny vibrations inside Starsky's rectum. "This is really tight."

"Keep going, Hutch," Starsky insisted. He didn't move as the pressure increased on his sphincter, whimpering as Hutch pushed steadily inward until his palm was completely inside. "Stop, stop..." Starsky panted. "I need to get used to it." His rectal muscles were ripping apart, separating fiber by fiber, held together with nothing but gristle and bands of tendons, but it wouldn't last forever, he just had to ride out the burn.

Hutch froze, his arm severed at the wrist, the rest of it tunneled into Starsky's core. Shifting rainbows shimmered around him like some archangel from Michaelangelo's masterpiece in Rome. Starsky locked his gaze on that of his beloved master, using all his waning powers of concentration to drag his mind away from the stretching pain in his anus and onto that beautiful man. He felt diminished in the presence of such perfection. What had he done to deserve Hutch in his life? He was filled up with such love for him that it spilled out across the room in a swell of emotion.

"Ready?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah," Starsky breathed in and out, but he couldn't quite draw in enough air. This hurt, there was no way around the fact. It wasn't agonizing and in fact, once Hutch had completely penetrated the rectum, it wasn't even a bad pain. Just exquisite pressure, an elephant settling between his legs, threatening to rend him asunder. Fingers writhed against his inner walls, creating strange tingling sensations that jangled his nerve endings. Indecipherable signals leapfrogged across the synapses--pain and unimaginable pleasure spiraled Starsky up into unparalleled heights. He was flying.

Far from hurting, all of a sudden Starsky wanted to throw back his head and laugh. Phenomenal, that's what this was. A fucking miracle. Sweat dripped down his face, wetting the collar that bound him to Hutch. "Do it, now..." Starsky pleaded. He had to know what it felt like, to experience one of the true marvels of his life. Coming back from the dead was a kiddie ride at the park compared to this bliss.

Starsky cried out as the fingers inside him rotated, bunching into a fist that dilated his center exponentially. He was well and truly reamed, opened like a flower in the sun. LSD had nothing on fisting. Starsky could see vibrant colors dancing in the air, flashing streams of brightness that had to be fairies flitting around him in joyful celebration.

"Oh, god, Hutch, can you feel it?" Starsky gloried.

"I'm holding your heart," Hutch whispered in awe. "I can feel it beating in my hand, all around me, through me, inside me. Handfast..."


"Once people who got married were said to be handfast... I love you, Starsk."

"I promise to love, honor and obey, forsaking all others, 'til death do us part." Starsky vowed, his voice trembling. "I do, I love you."

"Forsaking all others, 'til death do us part. I do, I do." Hutch echoed, openly crying. "I'm going to move my fist."

"Yes, yesyesyes," Starsky screamed when knuckles grazed his prostate, a battering ram hammering inside him. Hutch seemed to be boring into his very soul, injecting his life force into Starsky's. The strong muscles of his rectum clenched violently, tensing down on the intruder, spasming relentlessly. This time Hutch screamed, his face contorted in ecstasy, his breath coming in harsh snorts as he yanked his wrist in wild jerks. That's when Starsky understood the amount of control he had over his master. He surrounded Hutch, held him fast. He was Hutch's world, alpha and omega. He gave Hutch power, pleasure and devotion, which was then returned tenfold. How could anyone claim that the slave was an abused pawn in such an alliance?

Near to passing out, Starsky shouted his beloved's name, feeling fingers bunching and scrabbling along the slick walls of his intestines. The orgasm hit with the force of a pile driver, leaving him trembling in the afterglow, his chest heaving with exertion. He couldn't speak just then, but lay back, listening to Hutch's sharp breathing.

"You didn't come," Starsky said finally, grief overtaking him.

"It's okay," Hutch said wearily.

"But this was what you wanted. Your special fantasy."

"It was more than I ever hoped for, Starsk." Hutch reached up to touch Starsky's face, wiping away a drop of sweat from his upper lip. "I think we got married."

"I know we did," Starsky grinned shyly. "And you didn't even kiss the groom."

"Wait'll I get you into a more comfortable position," Hutch leered. "Then there'll be some kissing." He began a series of small twisting motions, backing his hand minutely out of its sheath. "This may hurt even more than going in."

"You're not kidding," Starsky hissed, trying to spread his legs even further apart. The wide part of the hand was poised at the junction where his muscles protested the most, sending shock waves of pain up both limbs. Biting down on a strangled yelp, he shook his head at Hutch's questioning glance. "Don't stop, just get it out. I loved the ride, but the to and from could use some serious replanning."

"You just about crushed my wrist near the end there," Hutch grimaced, then his palm popped free, followed by the five family.

"So that's fisting, huh?" Starsky asked dreamily. "We may have to do it again sometime. Maybe once a year, on our anniversary."

"It's a date."


"Who said you were the groom?" Hutch teased, curled against Starsky on the day bed.

"I don't think I qualify as the bride," Starsky lazily stroked his lover's shining hair, twining the short locks around his fingers then letting it fall like wind blown straw.

"And you think I do?"

"You're much prettier than me."

"Not from where I sit." Hutch looked up at his slave lover, admiring those midnight eyes surrounded by lashes most models would have died for. Starsky was probably not what was considered classically handsome, but Hutch liked the sharp angles of his jaw, the way the mole below his left eye gave him an asymmetrical appeal.

"Then we're both the grooms," Starsky grinned, going in for a kiss like a guided missile homing in on the target. There was much languid petting and kissing but both were sleepy and succumbed to slumber curled around each other, dark hair mingling with light, fingers interlaced.

Hutch woke only because he had to use the toilet. He took the time to shower, shave and dress lingering over his clothes to find just the right outfit. It was important to uphold a certain level of power, to give the illusion of authority. To play the part to the hilt and see his dominance reflected in the respect in Starsky's eyes. There were times when he seriously wondered what had happened to the college kid who protested the war and promoted women's liberation. Did that old Ken Hutchinson still reside inside of him? How had he so seamlessly evolved into the man who easily became a master to his best friend? How strange that he could savor the erotic rush of domination that swept through him every time Starsky submitted to him. Yet, once they were shoulder to shoulder, knee deep in the scum of Bay City's streets, they became equals again, able to work effectively as a team. Their deep abiding love and mutual understanding, distilled into the essence of their partnership, grounded them no matter what the situation so that even in a relationship as outwardly unequal as master and slave they were able to find a balance and operate within that framework. Hutch was fully aware of how precious and rare his connection to Starsky truly was.

Coming back into the chamber of delights he sat carefully on the bed, not wanting to wake Starsky. He couldn't admit it to his partner without losing his status as dominant, but the promised punishment scared him. Even after Caress' tutelage he was still terrified that truly marking Starsky with a crop might change things between them. That night after Carlysle's murder Starsky had been so angry, lashing out with accusations that had scored Hutch to the quick, all because he'd taken the strap to Starsky's back in a consensual session of pain play and mild punishment. This one would be ten times more brutal--could he really do this to Starsky? The anger Hutch had felt with each disobedience was long gone, leaving only the demerits behind. In a way, that was why Hutch first decided to schedule punishment sessions on different weekends from the original offenses, so that he didn't lash out with anger and violence. Like a presiding judge, he had to be impartial about what was meted out.

Folding his legs into the most well known of Yoga postures, Hutch took a deep breath, voiding his mind of all distractions. All doubt and fear drained out until he was clean and new again, ready to take his chosen rank. He was the Master, he controlled the scene and what he said was the law. Starsky had railed against those rules and deserved a just and reasonable punishment. As Gilbert and Sullivan once said, "Let the punishment fit the crime." And in the world of BDSM, a flogging gave the slave a double gift, those eternally opposing forces of pain and pleasure delivered by the hand of his master. It was an intimate dance, binding them together with each end of the whip. Giver and taker, top and bottom, blond and brunet, Starsky and Hutch. Every one separate and yet infinitely linked, only balanced because each had a perfect antipode for counterweight.

When Hutch surfaced from his meditation, Starsky was watching him silently but he didn't flinch away or display any sense of wariness. Instead, he seemed to be memorizing every line of Hutch's body, as if he would never see him again and wanted what Hutch's grandmother used to call a 'mind picture' to store for later.

"You got dressed," Starsky said softly.


"I liked you naked," Starsky smiled, reaching over pull Hutch closer. "Like we were the same."

"But that's never going to happen today, Starsk," Hutch said, with a twinge of regret. Was all this wrong? Did lording himself over Starsky smack of despotism and colonialism? The old fashioned conviction that one man had the right to tell another what to do? All the doubts he had so carefully disposed of returned in a rush. "Does that bother you? Sometimes I..."

"Stop--cause if you're going outta character, like you used to accuse me a' doing, then it all breaks down." Starsky narrowed his eyes, regarding Hutch critically again. "You're the master, I'm the slave. That's the rules, and I don't have any problem with that. Hutch, I drove myself here. I knew the score. You're always straight with me. This whole world is like one big Indiana Jones movie--all action and never knowin' what's around the next corner, but weirdly enough it's addicting. I always thought it was just snapping on the cuffs and play acting the sheik and the virgin until you told me to kneel down in front of you, and I realized what kind of power we both held." Starsky took a breath, and Hutch could still see the tiny red marks the nipple clamps had made on his chest. "You can't be master if there's no one to order around and...I can't explain it, but being the slave ain't demeaning, it's sorta empowering in a weird way. I feel strong, free..."

"Starsky, I will never understand how your mind works, but yeah, " Hutch laughed, the yoke lifting off his shoulders. "What you said."

"So much of it is mind games," he waggled his eyebrows comically. "Like you getting to wear clothes and I don't. And your jewelry ain't so tight." Starsky slipped a finger under the delicate chain around Hutch's neck causing the tiny moon and star charms to wink in the sunlight coming straight down from the skylight. "S'been a long time since I saw this."

"Yeah--after you were...shot, actually when you were recovering I took it off." Hutch bent his head, resting his cheek on Starsky's hand still holding the chain.


"Cause some girlfriend, I can't even remember her name, gave it to me. She insisted on buying it for me and said I had to wear it because I reminded her of the moon." He rolled his eyes at the memory. "That I glowed."

"You do." Starsky moved his hand enough to tousle Hutch's thin hair, gazing into his master's eyes in open defiance of the rules. Hutch caught his breath at the sheer perfection of the moment, reveling in the feeling of Starsky's fingers lightly massaging his scalp. "The sun lights you up like a star." Starsky said romantically, then laughed unexpectedly, breaking the mood. "But that doesn't explain why you stopped wearing the necklace."

"No." Hutch moved back, now toying with the charms himself. "Did I ever tell you how Simon Marcus described you in one of his insane dream poems?"

Starsky recoiled almost comically, grimacing, "No, an' I don't I want to know. Just thinkin' about him gives me the heebie jeebies."

"You were the stars," Hutch explained. "Dobey figured it out. Stars for Starsky."


"You just said the sun--a star--made me glow," Hutch held out his hand, cutting into a band of brilliant sunlight like a knife parting butter, the resulting shadow crossing Starsky's legs. "You're my star. Whatever glow I have is a reflection of you."

Starsky stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "And you just accused me of not makin' any sense."

"I took it off because I loved you, not her," Hutch said quietly. "Then, just recently I found it in a tangle of jewelry. I needed a chain to bind me to you. It didn't mean her any longer, the star and the moon--they're you and me."

"Ah," Starsky crawled forward like a creature of the plains, all muscle rippling under furred skin, to kiss Hutch in the hollow of his neck. "It all makes a certain kind of logic. You're the moon, must be why sometimes you're all bright and easy to get along with and other times you're dark and formidable."

"Talk like that could get you in deep trouble, slave," Hutch smacked Starsky's bare butt all the while kissing him on the mouth with a resounding smack.

"I'll be good, master." Starsky tucked himself into presentation pose with all speed, but Hutch glimpsed a wicked smile on his turned down face. "What's next on the agenda, sir?"

Hutch knew without asking that Starsky was hungry, Starsky was always hungry, but also that Starsky was nervous about what was coming soon. It was only natural. Even so, they had to maintain some normalcy here, establish a routine to fall back on. Food worked on so many levels--it comforted, it filled the belly and created a lull to relax into, so that one was refreshed and ready after a meal.

"It's time for lunch," Hutch decided. "I've brought sandwiches."

"What kind?" Starsky inquired climbing off the bed to kneel at Hutch's feet.

Hutch loved seeing him there because Starsky was so truly humble for those few seconds when he knelt. It never lasted long. Too quickly the natural Starsky kinetic energy reasserted and he'd begin to fidget, unconsciously rebelling against the constraints placed upon him. And that, to Hutch, was pure David Starsky. He was unique, never allowing the conventions of life or their job to pound him into a bland, lifeless automaton. Starsky was always freedom, a breath of fresh air, an original amongst those who went by the book and slogged themselves into inescapable ruts. Starsky was beauty and vitality. That he then would lower himself willingly in front of a man who should be his lessor; not his master, infused Hutch with a sense of awe.

"Salami--I gave in and got you salami, all right?"

"Oh, god, now I know it's gonna be a rough afternoon if you're giving in to me!" Starsky tried unsuccessfully to look demoralized, but the twinkle in his eye dazzled Hutch. He'd once seen Starsky's spirit dimmed, after the shooting, but it had never gone completely out. He hoped there would never be a day when David Starsky lost his sparkle. It would truly be like losing one of the stars in the sky.


"Hands up," Hutch said, and without preamble Starsky knew the punishment was about to begin. He'd been fed, cuddled, even had a nice long shower that included some energetic hand play once he'd convinced Hutch to get in with him. They'd lingered under the cascading water, sliding wet bare skin together in a wrestling match that resulted in both landing butt first on the slick tile. But now the time had come for more serious matters and there was no more procrastination. They were in the chamber once more, but the comfortable leather sling had been taken down, and an ominous black frame stood in its place, taking up almost all available space from one wall to the day bed.

Taking a deep breath, Starsky complied, glancing up to watch Hutch attach the left leather cuff to the sturdy metal whipping frame above his head.

"Eyes down. You are in full submission as of this moment." Hutch clipped the right cuff in place, then got to work on Starsky 's feet. When it was done Starsky was almost suspended, his feet not flat on the ground, which gave him the unsettled feeling of trying to balance on the tilted floor of a funhouse. He was stretched wide, open and ready to be beaten for his disobedience. Despite that this was not the first time he'd been flogged, the experience would never become familiar. He had flaunted the rules given to him by his master and this was the accepted punishment. Unfortunately Starsky knew this wouldn't be the last time he'd find himself in this predicament. He was too much of a rabble-rouser to stop pushing the envelope. He'd long ago resigned himself to an afternoon of pain, that came with the territory, and frankly, he always relished the beginning, being cuffed and restrained. What was it about bondage that held him in such thrall? Even now, his initial fears were falling away, pushed aside by the arousal of being captive and under Hutch's dominion.

"As we talked about, there will be 22 strokes. You were given the chance to choose which implement you wanted used," Hutch spoke formally, walking in a slow circle around his slave. "You chose the paddle first and then the strap. You'll get eleven with the strap and eleven with the paddle, then I will give you four more with the crop."

Starsky drew in a startled gulp of air, remembering the two red welts X'd on Hutch's ass. He'd have four. Twice as many. He'd wanted dozens but just now that prospect wasn't as tempting in reality as it was in fantasy.

"When I use the crop it will not be to punish but to mark you as my own. My own, whom I love dearly. This isn't a trial to cause you more pain but to reinforce your understanding of slavery." Hutch cupped a hand under Starsky's chin, raising it up until they were looking into each other's souls. The words were harsh, almost cruel, but Starsky found himself melting under their power. He wanted to beg Hutch to begin this very minute, to score his flesh with the prescribed blows until he was black and blue. "Tell yourself that this gives you pleasure, even if the pain is bad." Hutch kissed him lightly on each eyelid, a blessing. "If you can't find actual pleasure inside you then embrace the pain because I gave it to you. Let it lead you through the fire to unimaginable joy."

"Yes, oh, yes, please." Starsky whispered just before a thick blindfold eclipsed the sight of his love. He couldn't help shivering, even though temperature in the room was perfect. Neither too hot or too cold, so as not to chill a naked slave. Still, Starsky trembled, straining his ears to hear what Hutch was doing. The anticipation was always even more of a knife-edge when he wore a blindfold. Senses remained on high alert, adrenaline shooting through his veins with such force Starsky could hear the coursing of his blood in his ears. How long would he have to wait? He couldn't breathe, couldn't keep still, couldn't predict what would happen next. He'd once told Hutch that the first things he thought about when he was bound were anticipation and hope. They were both a curse and a salvation. Not knowing what was going to happen was the main hook that had snared Starsky to BDSM. It was the clench of the belly before a big bust, the exhilaration of a high speed chase and the ultimate thrill of winning the gold medal. But today, he did know what was going to happen. He was going to be struck hard, with leather and wood 22 times. Make that 26, with the additional four from the crop. That's where the hope came in. Hope, hope, hope that he could ride out the session without making a fool out of himself and screaming.

The touch of Hutch's warm hand on his back wrenched a cry from Starsky, but the hand only skimmed the curve of his buttocks, traveling up the dip of his lower back and spanning the breadth of his ribcage. "You can cry, or scream, whatever you need to get out, Starsk, but nothing will stop me once I have begun. 'No' and 'stop' have no meaning and for the next half hour, even your safeword won't work." The fingers dug into the tight muscles of Starsky's neck, strained from his awkward position, and massaged a knot at the base of his skull. "I will give you a slight reprieve between each set, to catch your breath, but believe me when I tell you, Starsky, I know it will hurt."

The thwack came all too suddenly, without warning, landing squarely on his left buttock, driving the air from Starsky's lungs. He was acquainted with the paddle. It left a blunted, dull ache that thudded against the gluteus maximus, dispersing through the rounded globes to the hips and legs. After the first few blows, Starsky began to feel the heat rising, radiating off his body like a furnace. But he didn't cry out, not yet. The paddle was child's play compared to the strap. He suffered silently until the eighth swing of the paddle, only allowing himself a small whimper of pain as the last three smacks found their target, his buttocks sizzling like mushrooms sautéed on a skillet.

The strange thing was, his cock hardened into a granite shaped missile. He was aroused, very much so and the sound of Hutch panting behind him was more of an aphrodisiac than oysters or strawberries dunked in champagne.

"Eleven," Hutch said simply, when he had finished. Starsky listened as Hutch drank noisily from a glass, his wet gulps like exotic music. If only he would offer some of that liquid to the slave, make him drink from the exact place on the glass when his master's lips had touched. Starsky groaned, more from the image than the dark ache in his backside.

He could hear the swing of the strap and feel the brush of air seconds before it hit his skin. Enough of a warning to try and cringe away from the snap of leather, but he couldn't escape the searing pain that flared up his spine, not bound as securely as he was. This was worse than the paddle and it was only the first strike. Ten more to go.

Starsky flinched when the second one came, trying to breathe around the pain, but the third caught him unprepared and he howled, protesting the impact on his already blistered derriere. That was his capitulation. This hurt too much to keep silent any longer. Blow after blow rained down on his unprotected flesh, the thick leather strap falling in a wide descending arc wielded by the hand of his master. No longer consisting of anything but nerve endings flayed open and raw Starsky gave up his consciousness to the pain, feeding it all his unresolved burdens, self-hatred and recriminations. Not just the petty wrongdoings he'd perpetuated to earn this beating but all the myriad sins from childhood on. He let the strap strip away the guilt of not rescuing Lisa in time to prevent Waters from hurting her. He unmoored the memories of shooting Lonnie Craig, watching Terry die from a bullet he should have taken, blinding Emily with his own gun. All that was burned from his soul, scoured by the cleansing properties of the strap. This pain was so pure, so righteous he cried, tears streaming from his eyes to mingle with the sweat from his brow.

This wasn't a punishment, it was an awakening. It was the place fantasy was made of, because he knew it wasn't heaven or hell. He wanted to stay here, sure he would go crazy from the pain if the strapping continued much longer and equally sure he'd die if Hutch stopped just then.

Except his skin was on fire, a conflagration of epic proportions burned across his back, feeding his arousal like oxygen to a flame. He needed Hutch now, wanted that smooth body against him thrusting inside him to find the pilot light that fueled his fervor.

God, it hurt. "God,oh, God,ohgod..." Starsky wasn't even aware he was screaming aloud, tears streaming, his voice so raw he wondered if his throat had caught the last lick of the strap. He couldn't last any longer, and then it was over.

"There, there..." Hutch whispered, warmth suddenly enveloping Starsky from the front so that now he was a blazing inferno, his skin scorched on one side and blanketed with suffocating heat on the other. Sweat dripped down Starsky's face into his eyes, stinging. "You did it, little one. You did it, 22 strokes, Starsky." Hutch cooed, embracing him with tender care.

Allowing himself to be cuddled and cherished Starsky could still feel the rigidity of Hutch's cock against his bare leg, even through the velvety cords Hutch wore. Hutch was as turned on as he was, his breath still coming fast and furious after the workout.

"How'd I look?" Starsky asked when the blindfold was removed. He could hardly keep his head up, loving Hutch's big hand against the back of his neck providing solace and strength. Waves of heat spiraled off his skin, the pain from the beating profound and oddly comforting at the same time. He didn't mind being nude now, there was no way he'd put clothes for a week, at least. But he felt absurdly proud; a conquering hero who had survived the battle and maybe even won the prize, the love and honor of his adored one.

"You look fantastic," Hutch smiled proudly at him; his pale Nordic skin flushed a ruddy hue that made his blue eyes nearly pop from his face. "That was phenomenal..." He traced the trail of a tear, his finger sliding up and down the little mole just below Starsky's right eye. "Just a little longer, gypsy, my mark to remind you of what you mean to me and then it will be over."

"More of a break?" Starsky cajoled. He was so tired, so weary now and the strain from holding himself upright sent agonizing shards of pain up his torso centering on his shoulders and arms. If he relaxed his whole back went into spasm, so the only thing to do was keep his back stiff enough to support his upper body, but it was growing harder with each passing minute. Surely Hutch needed relief from that boner?

"You had a break, Starsk." Hutch reminded, holding up the whippy little crop Starsky had selected at Leather Jungle.

Why hadn't he picked something less lethal looking? Remembering the wicked sting left behind after he'd flicked it experimentally across his palm at the shop Starsky kissed the crop solemnly when Hutch held it to his lips. And he didn't do it just for show. Despite the already considerable pain he'd endured, he wanted those marks across his ass, proof of Hutch's ownership. Hutch had owned him body and soul since the day they'd met. Having the tangible evidence to show for it was like grabbing the brass ring on a merry-go-round.

Hutch held the crop flat on his palm as if contemplating its use, giving Starsky time to look at him before the next assault. He was flawless, every part of him a sculptor's dream, from his long muscular legs up the flat belly and across the wide expanse of chest. Even dressed in ordinary clothes he looked mythic as he took a quick practice snap with the slim length of leather.

"You're Thor." Starsky couldn't take his eyes off his Hutch, his master, even if he earned another demerit for flaunting the rules. His blond hair was almost colorless in the direct sunlight, the color bleached from his eyes so that they looked like transparent jewels.

"Thor had a hammer," Hutch reminded, stepping out of Starsky's view as he raised his right arm.

The crop was as different from the strap as an owl is from a sparrow. They were both leather implements to inflict pain, but that was where any resemblance ended. The first slash poured liquid fire across Starsky's abraded skin, driving all rational thought out of his head. He yowled from the shockwave, the swat blistering his backside. Weirdly, a suffuse joy spread through his system, leaching away some of the agony. He screamed wildly again, but that didn't stop Hutch for a moment. Three more strokes followed, scoring Starsky with thin stripes of blazing intensity. The pain buried deeply, imbedding itself in his tissue like a small animal finding a good place to spend the winter. It would be a long time before the damage inflicted would disappear from sight.

Starsky let his head hang between his suspended arms, utterly exhausted, but jubilant all the same. He wasn't exactly sure why he was so happy, considering his current position and wondered if the beating had somehow addled his brain, but he felt supremely giddy. The inferno that was his skin hardly mattered, although he knew he'd feel it for days to come. He wanted to see those four marks cutting into his skin, wanted to feel the true meaning of Hutch's devotion and domination. He was still gulping air, trying to get his respirations under a count of 100 when Hutch placed a smooth hand on Starsky's soreness. Just that touch, as light as angel wings, was too much. Starsky wailed, needing to be let down now, needing to cool the heat. He felt feverish, achy and incredibly horny, wanting to go down on his master in the worst way. "I'm yours," he whispered over and over. "I'm yours, yours..."

"And I'm yours," Hutch vowed, touching his lips on Starsky's shoulder to place a sweet kiss on the pointy knob there.

"Oh, man, that was...fiendish," Starsky said, hoping he'd be let down now. This had gone on long enough, he wanted some serious cuddling and maybe to lie on a bed of ice for about a year.

"It was supposed to be." Hutch came around in front so Starsky could see him. "So you'd remember." He rapped a knuckle on Starsky's forehead before bestowing little kisses everywhere he could reach starting with the temple and working his way down.

"Huuutch," Starsky moaned. He was like a candle, hot and dripping down into a molten pool. Surely he wasn't still hanging by his wrists because he felt formless and indistinct, no longer separate from Hutch but simply an extension of him.

"You ready to come down now?" Hutch asked when he'd kissed down Starsky's full length and knelt at his feet. It was the work of seconds to unlock the ankle cuffs and then the wrist ones. Starsky wavered, his muscles still gelatinous. Hutch steadied him, walking him the short distance to the daybed to lay prostrate. "Rest for a while, I've got something for you," Hutch suggested. "I'll be right back."

Closing his eyes, Starsky drifted weightlessly, still half in the thrall of the beating. What a strange, unexpected experience that had been. He'd never expected to feel altered by the discipline--simply royally punished for his misdemeanors. What is it Catholic priests always said in those old "Bells of St. Mary's" type movies? "You are absolved, go and sin no more."

He was so totally submerged into his submissive space he could barely remember the stress and tension Detective Sergeant David Starsky usually carried with him at all times. He yearned to stay like this, just be, removed from day to day pressures and totally without responsibility. His back still hurt but he barely cared, because the pain had transported him to this magical place.

In the back of his mind, however, there was the absolute certainty that this couldn't happen regularly. Not just because he'd be unable to work if he were constantly covered in bruises and welts. This--the whipping, the fisting and even just curling on the bed with Hutch, wearing the leather collar and cuff that denoted him a slave--this all had to be kept special, so that it was a privilege to kneel down before his master, not an every day occurrence. Hutch had said that keeping the BDSM sessions to occasional weekends would stagnate them, but Starsky disagreed. Having to wait for holidays were what made them all the more exciting, like the exquisite thrill of opening a beautifully wrapped gift and taking the paper off slowly to play out the suspense just a few seconds longer. That was BDSM to Starsky. The unknown all wrapped up in leather and velvet, waiting to surprise him. Now, all he had to do was convince Hutch to change his mind. This was definitely one of those discussions that was best held in a neutral place without sex toys or handguns. Starsky chuckled to himself, picturing the two of them in an open field, pacing out ten steps apart so he could yell his decision to Hutch across the gap and avoid any repercussions.


Unable to keep from smiling, Hutch collected the items he needed before hurrying back into the session chamber. It wasn't just his lips smiling, either. His cock hadn't deflated since he'd begun swinging the paddle. It was a true mystery what the whole thing had been so erotic, so intoxicating for him. He'd been awestruck at the sight of the strap snapping across Starsky's vulnerable flanks, inspired by the streaks of color that infused that unmarked skin. What made this so kinky and arousing? He couldn't have explained that one if given a year to prepare his answer. Flogging Lisa hadn't turned him on and there hadn't been a glimmer of interest watching Caress deliver blows to her corpulent sub. So how could he possibly be turned on by doing it to Starsky? Because Starsky was?

There was no doubt about it, despite the obvious pain he'd suffered, Starsky was as stimulated as a stallion on racing day and Hutch couldn't wait to get back in there and revel in their mutual desire. Who cared how weird it might seem in a less provocative moment?

"How you doing?" Hutch asked, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed near Starsky's vibrantly colored ass.

"Rough isn't the word for it," Starsky was resting his head on folded arms, appearing to be almost asleep. "I don't think there are words to describe it."

"Just lie still for a while," Hutch opened a jar of sweet smelling ointment, scooping out a small glob to smear on his slave. Starsky sucked in a startled breath when the cold gel landed on his overheated flesh, but settled down with a sigh of relief as the soothing mixture cooled his skin but not his ardor. That was still poking out prominently between his spread legs.

"Oh, yeah..." Starsky mumbled into his arms. "That's great, Hutch."

Hutch had to agree. He loved massaging Starsky's body, sensing the muscles softening under his touch, gliding his fingers through the slippery ointment and rubbing hurts away. Maybe this was why he got so aroused by the punishment session, because he knew there'd be a prolonged cuddle afterwards. And with him and Starsky, cuddling almost always led to more sex. Like a wonderful ride through the Tunnel of Love at the county fair, there were the wild moments and the slow, intimate ones. He wasn't sure which he liked best. He simply let himself bliss out on the feel of skin touching skin, enjoying the peaceful interlude.

"Hey, it didn't rain," Starsky observed after a while.

"Hmmm?" Hutch realized he'd been at the massage longer than expected and it was time to move on to other things.

"Weather man kept sayin' it was going to rain all weekend, and it's been sunny, at least from what I can see." Starsky twisted his neck to peer out the window just past the end of the bed and saw Hutch pulling on a leather driving glove. "What's up your sleeve now?"

"Just something else to cool you down," Hutch replied.

"I'm a whole lot better. But you got that look in your eye..."

"You're too nosy for your own good. See the blindfold on the table there?" Hutch diverted his attention, pointing to where he'd dropped the blindfold earlier. "Put it on."

"Yes, master," Starsky answered with a smirk, his eyes twinkling merrily before he donned the black satin sleep mask again. "Want me to tie myself up, too?"

"No, this is good enough. You're still in deep submission and bound by the sound of my voice. You can't move a muscle, even if you wanted to." Hutch felt omnipotent, knowing Starsky would strive to do exactly as he commanded. When they returned to their real lives, everything would be so different, so he allowed himself a small measure of self-satisfaction. He was a powerful dominant, with a willing slave who hung on his every word--mostly.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked in a stage whisper.


"Can I talk or just make strangled noises?"

"You can talk," Hutch grinned. Starsky had stretched out his arms so they no longer pillowed his cheek, gripping the top corners of the sheet-covered mattress instead.

"For now."

Opening the bucket he'd brought in from the kitchen Hutch extracted an ice cube, holding it over the perfectly spaced welts on Starsky's butt. The melting ice dripped freezing cold water onto the one place Hutch had not applied gel. Starsky gasped, muscles rippling across his rounded cheeks, but he held his position, never pulling away when Hutch placed the ice squarely over one of the ridges and held it there.

"Th-that's c-c-cold!" Starsky protested without moving.

"Heat and cold, Starsk, tempers steel. Makes you strong." Hutch made swirling patterns with his icy marker, covering every inch of buttocks with cold. Starsky was panting with the exertion of keeping still, his fingers clenching the sheet. Hutch found him own breath rate speeding up in time with Starsky's, his aching cock swelling with need. When the cube had decreased in size so much it was difficult to hold onto, Hutch gave a final sweep over his beloved's bottom and dropped the sliver into the bucket. Placing his hands on Starsky's thighs Hutch pushed his pliable slave up until he was on his knees with his chest still resting on the bed. His remarkable erection stood proudly between his legs, throbbing with blood.

"Remember, whatever happens, you can't move unless I say you can." Hutch whispered, his own cock wanting desperately to delve into that pink puckered opening that winked and spasmed every time he teased it with a new cube of ice. He knew the dangers of infection, for both of them, if he thrust into that tight little wonderland so soon after the fisting, but what if he used a substitute?

"Hutch, I'm turnin' into a Popsicle here!" Starsky gulped, his legs shaking from the strain of remaining so still with such erotic torture.

"Doesn't look that way to me." Ducking his head Hutch licked a long hot path up the veined backside of Starsky's cock, wrenching a shout of encouragement from his victim. Then, in the wake of his body temperature tongue he sent the ice cube and Starsky screamed, his cock jumping as if it could escape the demonic treatment. Hutch laughed, the sight of Starsky's dancing dick a pure delight. He wrapped his tongue around the quivering thickness, feeling the cool skin warm up immediately. Starsky was humming with pleasure, almost vibrating in place.

Poking around in the ice bucket without breaking contact with the honey stick in his mouth, Hutch identified his specially prepared icicle by touch. It was long and slender, frozen inside a condom. Lapping the sweet skin of the perineum, Hutch then laved Starsky's buttocks with sloppy licks and little sucks, riding the crest of one welt and then sliding down in between before flowing up the side of another. Starsky's half giggle, half yelp assured him that he was making the right moves.

"Incoming, little one," Hutch warned, wrapping his gloved hand more firmly around the icy stick. "Remember, you're frozen in place."

"That's no lie," Starsky chuffed a laugh.

Carefully Hutch slid the glacial dildo into place, taking his time. Starsky was used to much larger plugs, but this one was solid ice and shockingly cold.

"Oh, SHIT." Starsky tried to arch forward, away from the intruder, but Hutch held him in place with a firm hand on his hip, sliding the dildo back and forth. "God, that's cold," Starsky hissed, his teeth beginning to chatter. "Keep going, keep going. It feels great."

"I don't want you to get frostbite," Hutch chuckled, even with the glove on his hand was practically chilled to the bone. Starsky must be numb inside, with that deep cold that almost aches. "Time to warm you up again." The frosty condom was beginning to melt by the time he tossed it into the ice bucket and rolled Starsky over on his side, wrapping both arms around him. "This any better?"

"Much," Starsky purred burrowing into Hutch's warm body as Hutch removed the blindfold. "You wouldn't happen to have a cup of hot coffee in your bag of tricks, would you, Mr. Wizard?"

"No stimulants for you." Hutch loved the feel of Starsky's soft curls against his neck; the wet slurps of Starsky's tongue darting out to taste his skin. "You're already higher than a kite."

"I've been flying all day," Starsky agreed, still snuggled against Hutch's chest. After unbuttoning the shirt he had vigorously begun sucking and kissing chest and nipples. "But your balls must be purple by now. I can't believe you haven't gotten your rocks off once. Shouldn't the master get first choice, not last?"

"You've never gone by the rule books, why should I?" Hutch laughed as Starsky wormed his way further down his body, now working on opening the zipper of his pants. "It was more fun watching you, watching your body respond to what I was doing to you."

"You've got a devious mind, I'll say that much," Starsky remarked, the last word mumbled as he mouthed Hutch's aching cock, delicately pushing his tongue under the foreskin and blowing.

"Starsk!" Hutch gasped, the whole concept of master over slave ripped completely asunder as Starsky completely took control. He was slipping into a warm, wonderful cocoon, sliding down slippery slopes to rest in a sensual bed with undulating wet walls. With the single brain cell that continued to work Hutch wondered if this was what the womb felt like. Protected, comforted, cosseted and so very alive. Starsky's mouth performed amazing feats of magical prowess, bringing Hutch to the brink of madness and then backing him down. However, he had been primed all day long and only his own self control kept him from pumping his load down Starsky's willing throat in the first minute. Hutch was enjoying the ride too much to have it end after a few seconds, so he thrust and parried, then thrust again, screaming his pleasure to the gods before finally succumbing in an almost painful rush. He shuddered in the aftermath, his whole body slack with exhaustion. He barely opened his eyes, subliminally aware that Starsky had collapsed onto his chest, already asleep.


"Do you like the night or the day better?" Starsky asked.

"I've never thought about it much." Hutch considered the question popping another chunk of beef into Starsky's mouth with a skewer. By the time they had finally roused from the bed it was getting dark, a cold wind picking up out of the north. The little house shook from the force of the wind and there was a high probability that the weatherman's prediction of rain would come true before midnight. Following a leisurely shower and a couple of aspirin for Starsky they had settled in the den with two fondue pots. After lighting the little Sterno cans under the bright red enameled pots Hutch chopped beef and Starsky stirred melting cheese until dinner was prepared. They fed each other bits of bread dipped in warm cheese and meat sizzled in hot oil with the long handled forks, alternating with sips of deep red wine. "When we're on the street, the night is the enemy because it gives the bad guys the advantage, so I'd have to say the day. But here, when the sun goes down, the moon comes out and all the stars..."

"It almost always rains when we're here." Starsky teased, waving a cube of beef he'd cooked in the boiling oil until it was just brown on the outside and still red in the middle.

"It won't always," Hutch closed his mouth around the tantalizing tidbit, releasing it from the fork with his teeth and chewing without taking his eyes off Starsky. This was how he wanted it to be forever, but he knew that was greedy. This was like the best of Christmas, birthdays and Fourth of July all rolled into one, a glorious celebration of love, life, and sexual orgy. A moment meant to be savored and cherished. As much as the thought of living daily with a willing slave was a complete and total turn on, if he were honest about it, he knew it wouldn't work. Neither he nor Starsky would be able to keep up the role-playing constantly, which would spoil the perfection of their time together. He'd always known that, deep down. He had just needed to work through the idea to its rightful conclusion, that they remain occasional master and slave, to spice up their already fantastic daily relationship. And he would bring up the subject very soon. "Here the night is magic, full of whispers and surprises, the dark folding around our house and giving us a secret hideaway for these games."

"You're a poet and don't know it." Starsky dunked a piece of bread in the cooling cheese with his fingers. He'd extinguished the little Sterno flame but the cheese was still liquid enough to coat the bread and the tips of his fingers, too. He slurped up the cheesy bread, his hand slathered in creamy orange.

"Let me." Hutch caught up one of the messy digits and sucked it clean, washing up the rest to Starsky's delight.

"D'you know how many germs there are in the human mouth?" Starsky admonished playfully, tossing a hunk of bread at him.

Hutch caught it easily out of the air and ate it. "More than in a dog's."

"I thought so. Think I'll need a rabies shot now?"

"Hardly likely. But just in case..." Hutch gently poked his best friend's belly with the fondue fork. "You're done."

"I'm blazing," Starsky winced, shifting around to take the weight of his buttocks. Still nude, he was sitting on a flat, fur-covered pillow, but was obviously in some discomfort.

"You okay?" Hutch asked sympathetically.

"Hutch, it's fine. It's more than fine. This is just the way it is, and it'll hurt, but I don't care because it makes me remember how good it was. So much of you and me is bound up in all this, and...I was flying. It was like one of the weirdest and wildest dreams I ever had, but this was real."

"Everything about this day was special, perfect..." Hutch pushed aside the two pots, scooting nearer to Starsky to share the pillow. "I wanna give you something."

"If it's got a long piece of leather and a handle, I'm past my quota."

"No, it's a present. Just wait and see." He snagged the strap of the gym bag that he always kept nearby with his foot and dragged it closer.

"Again with the bag," Starsky said in an exaggerated Jewish accent. "Whatcha got? It's not my birthday or anything."

"Something I think you'll like very much." Hutch fished around amongst the sex toys and whips. "I finished paying for it the other day."

"This BDSM has bought out a whole new side of you. Shopping Hutch." Starsky watched curiously but stayed submissive, not reaching out to grab the bag and search for himself. Hutch was impressed since they had essentially dropped their roles at dinner and he hadn't enforced his dominance. Still, maybe submission had taught Starsky a small lesson of patience, which was all for the good if that one thing bled over into their real world. "You must spend all your money down at Leather Jungle." Starsky said.

"Not all of it," Hutch smiled when he finally felt an envelope under the leather backed paddle and pulled it out. "Some of it I spent on this."

"What?" Starsky accepted the manila envelope, turning it over in his palm.

"Open it!"

"I will." Starsky regarded him with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. "Give me a minute. Will a snake jump out at me?"

"Starsk, that's your schtick. Besides, it's a flat envelope."

Releasing the back flap Starsky flipped it open and pulled out the thick sheath of papers. "What's this? A deed?"

"I bought this house, Starsk." Hutch pointed to the relevant line. "But I put it in your name."

"You bought this house?" Starsky echoed, in disbelief. "For me?"

"It's your house," Hutch said softly falling in love all over again from the way Starsky looked back at him with such incredulous devotion, dark blue eyes wide with shock. He'd well and truly surprised Starsky, who probably never expected Hutch to give him such an intimate gift after years of unsentimental ones.

"Oh, my god, Hutch," Starsky whispered. "I never owned a house before. But why?"

"Because that way, you're the boss of what goes on here. I may be the master, but you're in charge. If you want the whips and the cuffs, it's your decision. If you want things to go back the way they were, that's okay, too."

"What about the contract Lisa was going to draw up?"

"I think we need to talk more about that."

"No, we don't." Starsky shook his head, folding the documents proving his ownership of two acres of land and a house on Robinson Lane back along the original lines and reverently slipping them into the envelope again. "Unless I miss the mark completely, we're both in agreement on that."

"You don't want it either?" Hutch asked, a rush of relief leaving him goosebumpy. Sometimes he and Starsky were in such perfect accord it was scary.

"It sounded sexy as hell." Starsky kept touching the papers as if he couldn't quite trust they were real, turning them around and around until Hutch finally had to pluck the envelope out of his hand and place it on the lowest ledge of a nearby bookshelf. "And Caress and Lisa make it work, but..."

"We're not them," Hutch nodded. "We live by our own rules and we'll figure out what works for us in time."

Starsky threw his arms around him shouting babbled thank yous, and Hutch felt his heart literally jump for joy as he kissed his favorite slave full on the mouth. "See, there," Starsky licked his lips. "That's the kind of thing I want around here. I think I'm gonna have Lisa draw up a whole buncha rules for conduct in my house." He cocked his head. "Sounds terrific, doncha think? My house."

"Sounds pretty good to me."

"And rule number one is the master has to kiss the owner of the house as often as possible."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to break that rule." Hutch laughed as Starsky smooched him soundly. "You really still want a master? Are you ever interested in switch hitting?"

"I dunno, I don't think so." Starsky pressed his body so close Hutch could feel the jut of a thick penis on the curve of his hipbone. "Which means rule number two is nothing changes--we keep doing what we've been doin'."

"In other words, if it's not broken, don't fix it?"

"Damn--at this rate you'll never earn a demerit," Starsky pretended to fume, rubbing his cock against Hutch's thigh just to the west of another very interested penis.

"That's okay with me, 'cause if nothing changes, you'll earn a few."

"That sounds about right." Starsky raised up on his knees, so near Hutch could feel the ripple of muscles between his ribs when he took a breath, but Starsky was no longer resting his backside on Hutch's lap. "I'll feel your marks all week long," he said in a husky voice that oozed passion.

"That's the point." Hutch ran the flat of his hand down the slope of Starsky's rump, gently fingering the four raised marks he'd put there. Starsky stiffened with a sex-drenched sigh, straddling Hutch's legs, as physically close as two people could be without being inside each other. Except they were inside each other, all the time, each carrying the other's heart inside his body. "I'll feel them, too," Hutch whispered into the wealth of dark curls so close to his cheek, wrapping his arms around the taunt, wiggly body by his side.

"Thank you, Hutch." Starsky said more quietly, his head on the other's shoulder. "Even if we're not doing the whole full time routine, d'you think...?" He paused as if uncertain how to finish the sentence.


"Well, I was just wondering. Is this house for just weekends, or all the time?"

"Starsk, it's your place," Hutch reminded, so overflowing with happiness he didn't ever want to leave this room again. Maybe if they pulled the phone closer so they could order the occasional delivered food to keep their strength up, then they wouldn't have to get off the furry pillows for at least another couple of days.

"Well, what about living here all the time?" Starsky asked, almost shyly. He tipped his head back, gazing into Hutch's eyes. "Together. Then we could do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted."

"Live with you? We did just get married today," Hutch said, even happier now than he had been one minute before.

"Hey, that means tonight is our wedding night, huh?" Starsky grinned. "Got any plans?"

"I'm not carrying you over the threshold, if that's what you're thinking. Other than that, you're the boss around here."

"Then I propose that you find a couple of those cuffs we left in the chamber and put 'em to good use." Starsky held out his arms with a saucy wink like a cheeky felon about to be arrested. "It's not gonna be an every day kind of thing around here, but we still got a few days left on our weekend and I want to christen every room in the house."

"Three bedrooms, living room, den, kitchen, one and a half baths and a hot tub," Hutch rattled off as he leapt to his feet, nearly tripping over Starsky's in the process and grabbed onto the bookshelf for support. Suddenly he could think of a half dozen things to do with two leather cuffs and a few other select items from his bag of tricks. He trotted down the hall, snatching the discarded cuffs from the day bed. Starsky still wore the brown collar buckled and locked around his neck, but was otherwise unfettered while they were eating dinner.

"Hutch, can we still go to the Estate, even though we got this place now?" Starsky carried the fondue debris back into the kitchen, shouting his question over his shoulder.

"Only if you're really, really good at being very bad." Hutch came up behind him, capturing Starsky around the middle to turn him around so they faced one another.

"Great!" Starsky enthused. "There has to be a way to figure out the address of that place."

"You do and you'll be polishing the strap with your butt again."

"I could find a topographical map..." Starsky mused, tapping softly on Hutch's shirtfront. "It's not that far out of Bay City...If we went back and I set the timer on my watch the minute we got in the car and stopped it when we got to the cabin, then I'd know the distance..."

"Starsky, you're just trying to earn demerits!" Hutch shook his head in bemusement, cupping his hand around Starsky's left arm to buckle the first cuff back into place.

"Not trying so much as--maintaining the status quo." Starsky rotated his wrist like he was testing the fit of the cuff while Hutch decorated the right wrist identically to the left. "No wonder you said your friend Joel wouldn't mind the remodeling you did in the back room. Where'd he go, anyway?"

"He flies overseas, met a girl in Germany and relocated there." Hutch admired his slave once again attired properly. The brown leather adorning Starsky at neck and wrists suited him which just went to show he'd been born to sport bondage wear. The diamond glinted in the lobe of Starsky's ear like a firefly in the night. He had given Starsky a diamond and a house, but Starsky had given him so much more--love, devotion, and a kinky sex slave ready for adventure.

Still trying to decide between several attractive scenarios playing out in his head, Hutch leaned back against the kitchen cabinets absently rubbing the fine polished wood. Hooks would be useful in any number of ways in the kitchen, from hanging pots and coffee mugs to securing recalcitrant slaves for a little domestic discipline. He made a mental reminder to buy a few boxes of heavy-duty hooks on his next trip to the hardware store. "Joel sold this place for a great price because it does need some work. The outside has been painted recently, and I fixed up the chamber, but there's dry rot in some of the window frames and the plumbing isn't up to code. And the electrical system was put in by Edison himself. I still plan to make a few more renovations."

"Special modifications?" Starsky waggled his eyebrows. "Whatcha got in mind?"

"Just some hooks, maybe reinforce the doorframes to make them weight bearing..." Hutch said, with an elaborate shrug.

"Hutch, you got any regrets about all this?" Starsky asked.

"What brought this on?"

"I dunno, it just seems like we were at a crossroads, but we chose the fork in the road and, now we're wearin' leathers ridin' tandem on a big black Harley." Starsky laughed as Hutch curled his long forefinger through the 'D' ring in his collar and pulled him closer. "But you never answered my question."

"Not a one, how about you?" Hutch kissed him, in accordance with Starsky's first house rule.

"Just wish we'd started all this a whole lot sooner. Now, don't you got some rules I can break?"