Talking Dirty Laundry
"Whose fucking socks are these?" Hutch's indignant shout brought his partner halfway down the stairs to their cellar as he continued, "Neither of us own gray ones, all mine are white ... " As realization dawned, his complaint dribbled off into silence, an angry silence, broken only by the washer starting its work on the first load of their laundry.
Starsky could just be heard attempting a discrete escape back up to safety.
"Get down here," Hutch roared, bringing his errant mate to his side, that cheeky grin which had covered many a misdemeanor, much in evidence.
"Wassa problem Hutch?" Forget the butter. KY wouldn't melt in this man's mouth.
"These," Hutch dangled the offending items under his partner's nose, "These are the problem. They're my socks. They were my white socks. What did you do to them?"
Starsky's nose wrinkled with the indelicate aroma rising almost visibly from the footwear. He tried a diversionary tactic. "It'll wash out, Hutch, don't make such a fuss."
"What will wash out?" The voice was dangerously low, very controlled.
"It's just a little oil." The whining was having the opposite effect from that apparently intended.
Hutch felt his blood pressure rising. "And how did it get on my socks?"
"Well, your car leaked it all over the garage floor." Starsky seemed to be trying the best form of defense - attack.
"So it's my fault you got oil all over my socks?" There really was no answer to this. Starsky glanced round the dimly lit cellar, possibly seeking inspiration, as Hutch continued, "What were you doing wearing them anyway?"
"What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine, lover." Starsky's eyes were large in the gloom, his smile seductive.
Hutch summoned sufficient strength to resist the lure. He advanced on his paramour, using his two inch advantage in height to the full, trying to physically dominate the argument as Starsky backed away into the table where their laundry was dumped for sorting. "My possessions are only yours when you take good care of them. These socks belong to no one now, they belong in the trash, and you are going to buy the replacements." He flung them in a grand gesture to the deepest recesses of their home.
Starsky picked up the nearest item from the pile of unsorted laundry on the table. It was their bed sheet from last night, liberally covered with the evidence of their passion. Holding it up, he pointed to a convenient, translucent stain. "Remember this one, Hutch?" The blond froze in his advance. "This happened when you were uncapping the KY and I bit your balls. Remember? You squeezed the tube so hard it went all over the bed." He paused and Hutch felt himself blush. Even after so many years of loving this unpredictable, playful man, he still embarrassed easily, was so often caught out by the mercurial changes of mood, the instant arousal he could evoke.
"And look at this one, Hutch." Starsky continued unabashed. He lovingly stroked a pale blotch on the dark cotton. "I made this one when you fucked me the first time. It was so slow I was going mad. I thought I was never gonna get there, and you knew it, didn't you? You really love to string me out like, that don't you? I could feel every inch of your cock inside me, rubbing, pressing, filling me over and over and over. Then you pushed in so deep I thought you were gonna come outta my navel, and then you squeezed my balls. God, that was wonderful." He smiled a wide reminiscent grin.
Hutch's mouth went dry. His breathing quickened. The cellar suddenly seemed much hotter. He could feel those passionate moments echoing through his body right now.
"But this is my favorite stain." Starsky declared. "This one wins the gold star. You remember this one." He waited for an answer, the sheet draped over his arm, raised it to sniff appreciatively at some dark marks. Hutch knew himself securely hooked and being reeled in. He loved it.
"Yeah," Starsky drawled. "This one happened when I was trying to balance the chocolate ice-cream on your stomach. It kept melting into your groin and I had to lick it off you." He looked up from under those long thick lashes, and Hutch, the fish, willingly threw himself up on the bank, straight into Starsky's skillet.
"Wanna dirty some more laundry?" Starsky murmured into Hutch's neck as they leant against the machine, squeezing together, trying to eliminate all the space between their bodies. "Spin cycle's coming up next ... "