This story was published in the anthology zine, Starsky & Hutch, Dangerous Lives, Dangerous Visions, in October, 2002 and premiered at SHareCon 2002. The entire DLDV 1 zine can be found on this archive. This story is also part of a series. The other stories are Bound to the Law II: Pierced by Circumstance (2 part story), and Bound to the Law III: Working Out the Kinks (5 part story), and Bound to the Law IV: The Ties that Bind (5 part story). Comments on this story can be sent to: Dawnrca@earthlink.net

Part 1

The small white envelope lay on the coffee table where Starsky had left it the night before, unopened. It drew him like a siren song, but Hutch had told him not to open it up until noon. It was nearly that now, since he'd slept most of the morning. Neither detective had gotten away from the squadroom until nearly four AM, with all the statements and reports the brawl and shooter had generated.

Just as the Torino had pulled up in front of Venice Place, Hutch had handed Starsky the envelope with the instructions not to open it until twelve noon. He'd then left without another word.

Watching the hands of his clock inch upwards until they met at twelve, Starsky nervously attempted to tidy his house, circling the coffee table each time he walked by with a load of dirty clothes or a pile of week old newspaper for the recycle bin. How did fifteen minutes stretch out like taffy to what seemed like fifteen hours?

Just as the last second ticked off, Starsky grabbed up the innocuous looking envelope to rip the flap off. Thinking better of that action, he rummaged around on his desk until he found the letter opener his mother had given him for his high school graduation, and carefully slit the top of the envelope. Inside were two folded pieces of paper, just like any average letter. Except, Starsky knew this was no average message. It was one that could possibly change the entire course of his life and how he lived it.

His hands were trembling as he pulled out the papers, smoothing them to read Hutch's neat handwriting. The note gave explicit instructions on exactly how to prepare himself for the evening's encounter, down to when to shower, what to wear and not to wear and what to eat for lunch. Starsky bristled slightly at the menu. What right did Hutch have to order him to eat a nutritious meal consisting mostly of vegetables? Then he shivered, realizing he'd given Hutch every right to do just that. He'd given Hutch the right to order him to do what ever the hell Hutch damn well pleased, on this particular Saturday. Until Sunday morning, he had no responsibilities except to please his master, and no rights at all. Hutch could have sex with him, beat him or order him to eat broccoli, and Starsky had to obey. He was rebellious enough to wonder how Hutch would know whether he had eaten broccoli or not, since it wasn't something he usually bought at the grocery store.

With a sudden jolt to his stomach, he ran into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door. Hutch would know because he had laid out the ingredients for the meal on the top shelf himself. Starsky pulled out what he was supposed to eat, laughing. Hutch was probably the only dominant that used his power to get someone to eat more healthily.

After crunching his way though lunch and washing it down with lemonade, Starsky showered and changed, selecting the clothes described in the letter. Red pullover shirt with the tiny white square on the front, blue jeans so faded and soft they were like wearing pajamas, except for the fact that they were skin tight and threadbare over knees, ass and crotch. Red socks and his blue Adidas finished the ensemble. No underwear had been underlined twice in red.

Standing in front of the mirror, Starsky shaved carefully to avoid any nicks or cuts and inspected his appearance. He looked normal, but his whole body was buzzing with anticipation. What would happen tonight? Would it change him forever? What was Hutch doing right now? Was he dressing, too? Would he look the same, but be somehow changed?

At two o'clock, the letter instructed, Starsky was to consult the map to the rendezvous house, and start his drive. It would take nearly an hour. Once he arrived at the designated address, he was to knock twice at the door and wait, his hands clasped behind him. When the door was opened, Starsky was not allowed to speak unless spoken to, and was expected to obey all commands. Disobedience would not be tolerated.

Just reading those words sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. What would happen if he didn't obey? His groin had been tingling every since he'd begun dressing, but now there was a constant aching need that begged to be relieved. Each command in the letter added to the throbbing in his manhood until it was uncomfortable just standing still. Starsky reached down to rub the back of his hand over the thin fabric covering his cock, then froze. Hutch would undoubtedly notice any wet stains on his jeans if he jacked off, and that certainly wouldn't be construed as following directions. He dug his fingernails into his palms, stilling the urge to grab himself.

The last instruction on the letter said to use the drive over to think of a safe word. A word that could stop whatever action was going on at the time and end the session. In BDSM, the word 'no' meant nothing. The Bottom could yell 'no', 'stop' or scream 'don't' until he was blue, but it wouldn't stop whatever the Top was doing, no matter what it was. Only two things could stop a session, the master ending it or a safe word. It was the only power the submissive had, but it was absolute. The safe word had to be agreed on ahead of time and only used as a very last resort. Starsky felt elated and chilled at the thought.

The safe word was the only possession he was to arrive with, that and the trust that Hutch would care for him, even under highly unusual and slightly scary circumstances.

Turning on the ignition, and driving down his street, Starsky wondered if it was the last time he'd feel completely in control for the next twenty-four hours. It took no thought at all to decide his safe word after that.

The rain from the day before had lingered for a drizzly, dreary morning, but launched into a full-blown storm soon after Starsky had started on his drive. It gave the afternoon the proper gothic atmosphere and he let loose a bubble of giggles, imaging himself stopping in front of some turreted monstrosity of a house, standing dripping on the front step to be let in by a hugely tall man in seedy butler's duds. Hutch would make an entrance, wearing torn fishnet stockings and a black corset like Tim Curry in Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Singing "Let's do the time warp again!" he followed the directions on the hand drawn map across the valley to a quiet, old fashioned area that gave him the impression he'd gone back in time a few decades. There were no dark, forbidding mansions filled with weird bondage aficionados here. It was more like the neighborhoods Norman Rockwell painted, pretty houses set back on well-tended green lawns. He found the correct road and turned right, driving slowly enough to peer out the rain streaked windshield to see the house numbers painted on the roadside mailboxes. The houses were getting further and further apart until there was a nearly half a mile without another one. He was beginning to think he'd missed his destination when he finally caught a glimpse of a jaunty red painted mailbox with the number 69 on the side.

"This be the place!" Starsky announced to the empty car, more to calm his own jangling nerves than anything else. The drive was gravel, bumping the Torino more than Starsky liked, and he was glad to pull up in front of a cozy little cottage with red shutters. His heart in his mouth, he got out of the car, approaching the house with a mixed bag of trepidation and nervous excitement. He dashed up onto the covered porch, ran his fingers through his wet, unruly curls and knocked the required two raps on the red door. Then, clasping his hands behind him, he waited for Hutch to let him in.

When the storm had really hit full force, Hutch had begun to worry that it might cause a problem with Starsky's drive over. He was very relieved when he heard the familiar whine of the Torino's engine drive in and then the double knock on the door, precisely on time.

He was filled with misgivings. He'd never actually been the one to oversee an entire session. More often he'd been one of a group of people, all paired off to act out their own bondage fantasies. He wanted Starsky to understand this world, to enjoy it and possibly, come back for more.

With a straightening of his spine, Hutch opened the door.

Starsky looked startled, his blue eyes bright in the gray afternoon. He was dressed as instructed and Hutch could see without even unzipping his fly that he wore nothing under his jeans. He looked good enough to eat. Hutch wanted nothing more than to pull him into a bear hug, assure him that everything would be great—this was supposed to be fun! But instead he assumed his sternest face, stepping aside to let Starsky in.

Remembering the rules, Starsky didn't say a word, walking across the threshold with his heart hammering so loudly, he was surprised Hutch didn't comment on the sound.

The room was dim, candles flickering everywhere, placed on tables and tucked into every available nook and niche. It gave the whole place a transient atmosphere, as if nothing were quite solid and real.

Hutch wore a loose silk shirt of shimmering pale blue that Starsky had never seen before. The softness of the silk draped his body, emphasizing his broad shoulders and strong chest. The shirt was tucked into smooth brown leather pants, so form fitting as to be a second skin, the bulge in the front sending a siren call straight to Starsky's groin.

"Drop your eyes," Hutch commanded, seeing what Starsky was looking at. "Undress quickly and lay your clothes on that chair."

Starsky took a shaky breath, walking forward as if treading on uncertain ground. He was surprised to find himself so scared. The excitement of anticipation had made him giddy in the car, but now his mouth was dry, his whole body jittery with nerves. What if he wanted to stop right now? When was Hutch going to ask for the safe word?

"Were you listening to me?" Hutch asked sharply, his voice low and forceful. "I said take off your clothes. I want to see you naked, on your knees, in front of me."

Risking a glance at his lover's face, Starsky almost didn't recognize the stern expression he saw there. Hutch was backlit with candles, his hair haloed in glowing fire, his blue eyes deep in shadow. Starsky couldn't know how hard it was for Hutch to maintain his distance. He wanted to peel those damp clothes off the other man's body himself, stripping him bare so he could feel the ripple of skin over hard muscle when he ran his palms over Starsky's chest.

Kicking off his Adidas, Starsky fumbled with his belt, but opened his fly without difficulty. When he stepped out of his jeans, his erect cock bounced out against his leg as he bent to remove his socks. Hutch bit back a sigh of pleasure watching Starsky's muscles bunch and move as he slipped off the footwear. He piled everything on a ladder-backed chair with great care. His shirt came off last, almost reluctantly because he felt suddenly self-conscious to be naked in front of his clothed partner. Belatedly he remembered the rest of his orders and dropped to his knees, the edge of the carpet abrasive against his skin.

"Took you long enough," Hutch said quietly.

Gulping against the flutter in his throat, Starsky tipped his head up, wanting to catch his partner's eyes, to read assurance in them on what exactly was the correct thing to do in this situation. He was exposed on the floor, completely out of the comfortable and familiar. Although it was comfortably warm in the room with a crackling fire burning merrily in the fireplace, Starsky had goosebumps down both arms. It was as if he'd never met the blond man in front of him, the best friend he'd ever had. The man he'd known for fifteen years appearing suddenly strange and alluring, bathed in golden light.

"I didn't say you could look at me." Hutch's voice broke the silence.

Guilty, Starsky dropped his eyes down, seeing his penis popped up between his spread thighs like some weird little puppet in a show. It just needed a script to perform. He waited, anxious to know his part, needing to please Hutch, to do what he desired him to do. Then, Starsky knew the other powerful tool he held: the key to Hutch's pleasure. The submissive did whatever it took to give his master pleasure and to make the session go where the Top expected it to go. Starsky had only to follow and learn and he would give Hutch the gift of his absolute trust and love.

"You know there are some rules. We've already discussed some of them, and you obviously read the instructions I left," Hutch said, carefully steeling himself from bending down to comfort the man kneeling in front of him. He understood now that being the dominant was more than just control, it was how to shape the scene to give the submissive the most pleasure. In doing so, he himself gained immense pleasure as well.

Starsky's body betrayed his nervousness, he knelt rigidly, his hands clenched tightly on his thighs.

"Are you scared, Starsk?" Hutch asked gently.

"A little," Starsky admitted.

"Do you want to quit?"

"We haven't even started yet." Starsky grinned shyly, knowing more than ever that he wanted to go on, to explore this new world with Hutch. "I just feel really weird here . . . like this."

"You look fantastic." Hutch smiled, admiring Starsky's bared chest. The hickeys and bite marks still showed through the dark thatch of hair curled across his chest, the old bullet and surgical scars visible, but no longer jarring, now just part of the story that made up David Starsky. He was incredibly alluring and provocative, open and vulnerable there on the floor with the uneven flames playing games of light and shadow over his skin. Hutch couldn't wait to explore every inch as if he'd never touched that beloved body before, but he had to conduct the session correctly. "Did you pick a safe word?"

"Yes." Starsky shifted his weight onto his heels, unaccustomed to kneeling for any length of time. "Torino."

"When you say Torino," Hutch intoned, amused in spite of himself by the choice, "it will stop the action immediately. Think very carefully before you use it. Even if something is very overwhelming, or if things are getting too much for you, think first. Do you really want to stop? That word stops whatever we're doing and we cannot continue. Do you understand?" He knew the words to say, had both read about and experienced various aspects of bondage firsthand, but it was like entering into an unknown situation as a detective. He was always worried about protecting his partner. How much would he be protecting Starsky if he were the one restraining him? Possibly even causing a small amount of pain? It was terrifying.

Except that Starsky had asked for this and Hutch had a hard time refusing Starsky anything. And Hutch had always enjoyed these kinds of sex games in the past. The chance to play them with his favorite bed partner was the stuff fantasies were made of.

"I understand," Starsky agreed.

"Then close your eyes," Hutch commanded. He leaned down, his right arm encircling his lover's chest and pulling him to stand. Reverently he placed his lips on Starsky's skin in that fragile dip where the neck meets the shoulder. Such a vulnerable spot in so many ways. Life could be cut short by a single blow to the carotid, or celebrated with a caress along the sensitive skin of the jaw. His eyes shut, Starsky shivered at the touch, his whole body craving Hutch's with an intensity that left him light-headed and trembling.

Moving his lips over Starsky's warm skin, Hutch could feel the hummingbird flutter of pulse against his cheek and he planted a line of kisses just above the clavicle to the tip of the shoulder. Leaving one hand encircling Starsky's neck, Hutch reached behind him to where he'd hidden an object on a bookshelf.

Starsky held himself still, barely able to initiate any independent movement on his own. Hutch's hand around his neck seemed the only thing holding him up, the thumb and forefingers gently massaging the tight muscles of his back with sensuous strokes.

Holding up a leather collar, Hutch slide the broad band around Starsky's throat, the long fingers of his hand now moving around in front to pull the collar up over the sensitive skin over the Adam's apple. Those fingers lingered for agonizing seconds before they moved around again, lifting up the curly hair on the back of Starsky's neck to buckle the collar firmly in place.

Starsky gasped, his hands reaching up to touch the thick leather collar that captured his throat, turning him into a slave. He wore Hutch's mark. A symbol of Hutch's ownership. Of his own submission.

"While we are together here," Hutch slipped his finger into the ring located on the front of the collar, tugging Starsky to walk forward, leading him into the living room, "this is the only clothing you get to wear. Remember to keep your eyes closed," he admonished when he saw a hint of blue peeking out between the impossibly long lashes. "Put your hands behind you." When Starsky had complied, Hutch snapped matching leather cuffs around each wrist and secured them together with a clip.

"Now, I think you know that you've already disobeyed the rules several times in the short time you've been here." Hutch breathed into Starsky's ear, his tongue tracing the curve of the helix down to the soft lobe, pausing there to suck gently, tasting the salty, spicy taste that was pure Starsky.

Moaning deep in his throat, Starsky swayed, weightless and unsubstantial. He was poised on a precipice, waiting for Hutch's next words to push him over the edge. What was he planning to do now?

The collar was so snug against his skin, just the slight vocalization of his moan reminded him of his submission. Every breath and sigh brought the feeling of the leather around his neck back to him. He couldn't get used to standing there, naked and cuffed, in Hutch's arms. Giving a little jerk, Starsky tested his bounds, but his restraints kept any movement to a minimum, Hutch's body against his back doing the rest.

"Not to mention what you did last night."

"Last night?" Starsky echoed, every part of him just a reaction to Hutch's actions. He had no will of his own; he was Hutch's to command in every way.

"You never consulted me, you never thought past that moment to what could have happened." Hutch rubbed the smooth skin of Starsky's rear, cupping his butt cheeks in both hands before releasing them with a quick pinch. "I told you I wanted to knock some sense into you." He had positioned Starsky near a high wing-backed chair. "Lean forward over the back of the chair."

This was it. Starsky leaned over, his chest hitting the back of the chair which meant he had to hang his head down, face first into the cushions. It was an awkward position with his hands still cuffed behind him but he had such a giddy thrill of excitement it canceled out any feeling of fear or foreboding.

Hutch picked up a ruler, the old fashioned kind made of wood. "Did your teachers ever smack you?" he asked in a conversational tone, the pale, rounded buttocks such a tempting target he could barely hold himself back from beginning too soon. Hot, heady waves of need were coursing through him, making it hard to concentrate. A good spanking would heat Starsky's backside to a glowing red, putting them in the mood for further exploration of those nether regions.

"Yeah." Starsky dipped into his childhood memories, conjuring up the pinch faced teacher in the third grade who'd yielded a ruler with a punishing hand, smacking the length of wood over his knuckles with a force that had left him bruised and in tears.

"This will be entirely different." Hutch flicked his wrist, the ruler just flexible enough to make a little whistling sound as it cut the air. "Don't move and you'll only get five strokes."

"Yes, sir." Starsky took a steadying breath. Would this hurt like Miss Monahan's smacks had?

He jumped when the ruler hit his skin, a zip of pain tingling across the synapses of his butt with breathtaking speed, almost too fast to comprehend. The second stroke added heat to the lightening, but it was still that quick, a spark and then it was gone, leaving no lasting impression. He anticipated the third, his cock jutting hard against the back of the chair, already leaking cum. When the ruler smacked down again, Starsky could see sparks from the building fire on his skin dart across his closed eyelids, his whole being charged with electricity.

Swinging his hand down to give another blow, Hutch couldn't believe how aroused he was by this. He was hitting his best friend hard enough to hurt, but Starsky wasn't complaining. In fact he was barely moving, his bottom sticking out, ready for each swat. Starsky let out a little explosive breath each time the wood landed on his buttocks, but otherwise accepted the blows with bravery and resilience.

Delivering the last stroke with jarring force, Hutch let out the breath he'd been holding. It was done. He almost wanted to go on, to do more, now that he'd discovered that both of them could handle it. How was Starsky doing? He'd never made a sound, never moved, just let himself be beaten without a fight.

Still holding the ruler, Hutch smoothed a gentle hand over his partner's buttocks, the skin reddened and hot to the touch, but otherwise unmarked. "Did that hurt?" Hutch asked, trying to keep the hesitancy and uncertainty out of his voice. He pulled Starsky upright, holding him when he swayed from the sudden head rush.

"Just a little." Starsky squirmed from the touch, which actually both soothed and irritated his supersensitive skin. Hutch's finger probed the tight anal opening, pushing gently inward. "I want . . . " Starsky remembered he wasn't supposed to speak unless spoken to, but the need was building so strongly inside him. He'd almost come with the last smack of the ruler—had there been just one more, perhaps two, he could have climaxed, something that totally amazed and frightened him at the same time. That a beating at the hands of his lover could arouse him nearly to orgasm. Now that need was pounding inside him, unrelieved and relentless.

"What?" Hutch had no lubrication on his finger, but the urge to continue pushing inside Starsky's body was intoxicating. "What do you want?" He asked, so close behind the other man that his lips touched Starsky's neck. He planted a kiss under his ear, just above the hard edge of the leather collar.

"You. I want you." It was getting harder and harder to form coherent sentences with every passing moment.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Hutch whispered into his ear. "Beg."

"I want you . . . to fuck me." Starsky sagged back against the taller man. "Please. Fuck me."

"On the bed." Hutch ordered, propelling him around. "On your knees."

Since nothing had been said about keeping his eyes open or shut, Starsky parted his eyelids enough to see where he was going. The flickering candles sparkled like starlight to his unaccustomed eyes, but he saw a large bed with an ornate metal frame in the next room, covered with a velvet bedspread and surrounded by more candles. He climbed up on the bed with shaky legs, taking the position eagerly. Once again, he was head down because of his still bound hands, and most of his weight was supported on his chest. It was uncomfortable as hell, but he literally couldn't wait another minute. Spreading his knees for a more stability, Starsky waited impatient, but unmoving.

First unzipping his fly to free his demanding erection, Hutch then liberally spread his hand with KY jelly, watching Starsky with aching desire. He was so incredibly gorgeous, all muscle and dark curls. Half the time he was Shakespeare's Puck, all impish spirit and childish glee and the other half he was a dark force, dangerous and deadly on the street, seeking out those who perpetrated evil. Which of these halves knelt on the bed? Was there another side to him, proud and gloriously unafraid to be dominated by the man he loved more than words could express?

"Please, Hutch, come up my ass." Starsky turned his head, his blue eyes guileless and beseeching. Kneeling bottom up on the bed shoved his cuffed hands up into the middle of his back and pressed his cheek down hard against the velvet spread. He was open and ready to be reamed.

"That was the plan." Hutch finished coating his length with lubricant, standing behind the bed so that he was directly in line with his target. He gave no warning, parting Starsky's butt cheeks, pinning him down so he couldn't move away. Hutch pushed the head of his cock in, slowly, but with a certain amount of force. Just inside the tight ring of muscle, he paused, the tight seal just on the edge of painful around his member. It was like shooting sex straight into his veins, all of his receptors fired at once from the squeezing, urging him to push in further.

Arching with the intrusion, Starsky tried not to resist. He wanted this so strongly, but the sensations were coming at him so fast, rolling over him in waves and he could hardly keep up. Hutch gave a strong thrust, half of his length entering in one motion. A spreading burn swept down the rectal canal, catching Starsky unawares and he moaned, deep and low, clenching his teeth from the unexpected flare of pain. It subsided when Hutch slipped partway out, reentering at a slightly different angle that hit the prostate dead center. Then the pain dropped away, replaced by lightening bolts of pure pleasure arching through his whole body with sharp, muscle crunching contractions.

Starsky's orgasm gripped Hutch with a ferocious hold, pulling him completely inside with each pulsating wave. His balls slapping Starsky's butt cheeks, Hutch thrust feverishly, matching his lover's motions exactly, fitted together perfectly like a key in a lock.

The double climax dissipated slowly, leaving both lethargic and spent. Curving his arms around his Bottom, Hutch lowered them both onto their sides on the bed. After pulling himself free of Starsky's ass, he scooted up closely, spooning against the other man's body.

His bound hands caught between their bodies, Starsky discovered that Hutch had never completely undressed. The leather pants slid with sensual grace against his bare legs, as Hutch scissored his legs around the smaller man, trapping him between his thighs. Hutch's fly was open and his flaccid penis lay on Starsky's palm, warm and sticky with semen. Starsky tried to close his hand around the rod so conveniently placed, but his dexterity was nil after being cuffed for over half an hour and he couldn't control his movements. Somehow, that had ceased to matter and he reveled in the way Hutch surrounded him totally, the silk shirt whispery soft, slithering over his exposed back. Every tactile sensation was exaggerated. He could feel the tiniest hairs on the back of his neck stirring with Hutch's breath on him. The aching burn in his anus only reminded him of Hutch's love, his awesome lovemaking, and the slight irritation on his buttocks was easily dismissed next to the kisses that now peppered his shoulders and arm.

"How do you feel?" Hutch asked, teeth just resting on his lover's bicep. He wanted to take a big bite, taste Starsky's essence and hold a piece of him inside for always.

"Special," Starsky said truthfully. "Amazing. I never knew it could be so . . . powerful."

"There's nothing like it." Hutch forced himself to leave off his banquet of kisses, to pay attention to his Bottom's needs. He moved enough to get some space between their bodies, releasing the clip that held Starsky's wrists together. He left the cuffs on, but gently rubbed his forearms and hands to restore circulation.

"Tingles." Starsky wiggled his fingers, finally capturing the oh-so-inviting penis between his thumb and forefinger briefly before Hutch pulled it out of reach.

"Not your turn, buddy boy." Hutch flicked him playfully by the ear like a stinging mosquito. "You can get up, use the bathroom, drink some water, whatever you need. When you're done, there's a tray of canapés and some sparkling fruit juice in the kitchen. Bring it in here."

"No wine? Beer?" Starsky asked impertinently, getting up slowly, all his muscles protesting the unusual positions he'd had to assume.

"Watch yourself, the ruler's still in the living room." Hutch came around in front of him, welcoming the face of his best friend as if he hadn't seen it in years. He privately groused that the one problem with being the Top is he spent an inordinate amount of time behind his subject when he really wanted to look into those astonishingly dark blue eyes, and feast on that soft sensuous mouth. He'd have to work on better positioning from now on. "Neither one of us can afford to get drunk; it leads to mistakes."

"Ain't been any mistakes, so far, Hutch." Starsky grinned triumphantly, knowing he was skirting punishment again, but he didn't care. Everything and anything Hutch did to him was like a poem to love. He wanted to pinch himself to prove that he was here and experiencing such mind-blowing sex, but stopped himself before inflicting any bodily injury. His skin and all that it held inside was Hutch's to command, and he couldn't even pinch himself without permission.

After relieving his bladder, Starsky realized how thirsty he was. He'd been breathing though his mouth through most of the beating in particular, and his tongue felt furry. He drained the glass of water the blond had provided while padding barefoot into the well-appointed kitchen. The tile was smooth and cold under his feet and he hurried to find the tray of food and drink to get back to the warmth of the bedroom. Reaching out his left hand to pick up the oversized plate of canapés, Starsky stared at the thick leather cuff encircling his wrist for the first time. He hadn't really seen it before, since he'd had his eyes closed when it was put on. Both his arms looked alien and strange, as if they were from somebody else's body. The cuffs fit perfectly, not a bit of sliding around on his wrist, and were buckled on the palm side of the hand with a heavy brass buckle. A small ring was anchored on the far side of the cuffs to bind them to each other or anything that would restrict his movements. The possibility that he could be chained to a post or ring mounted in the ceiling sent jolts of excitement and dread to his cock and clenched his balls. The sleek brown leather accented his skin in a way that was both fearsome and beautiful. They were tight, but didn't cut into his skin like metal handcuffs did. These were lined with something soft like suede or chamois, to reduce abrasions. There would probably still be a reddened mark when they were removed, and he wanted to postpone that moment for as long as possible.

He hadn't had a chance to see what he looked like with the collar around his neck, since Hutch had covered the bathroom mirror with a towel, but now he raised one cuffed hand up to the collar, touching it cautiously. It also was buckled in the back but he didn't dare put a finger on the fastenings. They seemed off limits, only for Hutch's hand. As frightening as it was to be bound, owned, subjugated in such a base manner, Starsky also felt freed. Having the tight bonds pressing in on his skin reminded him of who he was and also took him completely away from that Detective David Starsky who policed the streets in search of crime. He almost wanted a new name to go with his new persona.

"What's taking you so long?" Hutch called from the bedroom, having refreshed himself as well. He pulled back the velvet spread, airing out the shining blue satin sheets.

"I'm coming . . . sir," Starsky added belatedly.

"You'd better not be," Hutch teased, "unless I say you can."

"I'm yours to command." Starsky giggled, toting the large plate carefully, with the bottle of sparkling apple juice under his arm. He stopped short when he came into the bedroom. Hutch had removed his silk shirt, but closed his fly. He looked incredibly sexy with his broad, muscled chest bare above the skintight pants.

"God." Hutch breathed, taking in the magnificent sight before him. "Put the tray down and let me look at you." Starsky did so, feeling self-conscious. Hutch looked reverently at the naked man with his throat and wrists bound in leather, and his cock responded with such strong interest, it made him laugh. Starsky was a Greek, well, make that Polish-Russian-American god, his torso perfectly framed by the brown leather. Hutch just wished he'd bought every piece of leather the store had displayed—cuffs for the ankles, tight straps to bind the chest and scrotum, and even gags. Actually, Hutch hadn't ever considered a gag, as much as Starsky's chatter sometimes drove him nuts. He needed to be able to hear Starsky's comments, his utterances when they were in the middle of sex, to assure him that everything was going well. "You look magnificent. You shouldn't ever take those off."

"I was thinking the same thing." Starsky ducked his head, but the edge of the collar hit his chin, reminding him again that every thing he did was Hutch's to control.

"Give me a cheese puff," Hutch pointed to the tray, "and pour two glasses of juice. Got to keep your strength up for the rest of the day."

Discovering they were both famished, the food was devoured in short order, Starsky sitting cross legged on the end of the bed and Hutch against the head board with a pillow behind his back to protect him from the twisted, decorative wrought iron.

"Talk to me, Starsk." Hutch dusted the crumbs off his hands, "You were so quiet earlier. Did you really mean you never want to take the collar off?"

"Hutch, I'll feel this in my dreams." Starsky stroked a finger over the restraining leather, feeling the hint of metal that was embedded in the center of the collar to keep its shape. "All this is so incredible, I can barely describe it."

"You want to continue."

"More than ever," Starsky vowed. "Forever."

His heart leaping with gladness, Hutch grabbed Starsky by the arm, pulling him into him. "You don't know how happy that makes me, baby, cause there's a lot more to come." He kissed his brunette firmly on the lips, laughing to himself that Starsky was once again on his knees in front of him, and then decided what he wanted the next move to be. "On the floor, between my legs," Hutch commanded, his lips brushing Starsky's mouth and cheek when he spoke.

Scrambling to obey without delay, Starsky knelt, waiting for Hutch to turn around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his strong thighs bracketing the dark haired man.

"Hands behind you again," Hutch directed, the love in his chest almost overwhelming when Starsky complied so instantly. How did he deserve such respect and adoration? It was a scary thing that could easily be corrupted by the power he held, and he admonished himself to always remember to give his chosen one equal respect.

With a quick snap of the linking clip, Hutch locked Starsky's cuffs together again. "Unzip me without using your hands."

Well, that was obvious, Starsky snarked, but silently. No sense annoying his master so soon. He opened his lips, using just the front teeth; he very carefully rooted out the zipper pull from Hutch's pants, tugging it downward. It took a lot longer than he'd expected. The tiny pull was too small for him to get a good grip on and it kept sliding out of his mouth. By the end, he was drenched in sweat and dry-mouthed, but triumphant. Hutch's very happy and willing cock leapt out, ready to play, smacking him in the mouth because he was so close.

"Oops," Hutch laughed wrapping his hand around his dick to keep it in line. "Now, deep throat me."

Starsky nervously echoed the laugh, swallowing once to increase the saliva in his mouth. As much as he liked going down on his best buddy, he had never been quite able to take the full length inside until it slipped down the back of his throat. Hutch knew it too, which was exactly why he was he telling him to do so.

Starting slowly, Starsky began to lick and suck his way up the engorged penis, enjoying the way it pulsed against his lips and tongue, alive in his mouth. He felt slightly unsteady without the use of his hands, so he took his time, moistening each section of the cock with special attention. This was his favorite part, lavishing all his love on the one who loved him best. Hutch couldn't get enough of it, watching with a glad heart as his supplicant applied himself to the task.

One more inch, then another, until only a few centimeters remained outside his mouth, straining to come in. Forcibly disengaging his gag reflex, Starsky took a deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring with the effort and widening his jaw, took the full length into his mouth, feeling Hutch's balls smack his bottom lip.

There it was, that terrifying moment when the cock dropped down his throat, blocking the trachea. No airway, no oxygen, no way to breathe. His heart pounding with frantic rhythm against his ribs, he gulped as Hutch thrust hard, cum beginning to spurt from the tip of his cock. Starsky gulped, his tongue trapped flat from the immense rod claiming his mouth, swallowing desperately as the semen pumped down his gullet.

Logically he knew that Hutch would never let him suffocate, but his lungs were beginning to protest, striving to draw in a molecule of life giving oxygen. Black dots began to float along the periphery of his sight, dimming his view of Hutch's face, contorted in euphoric bliss. An involuntary tear slid down Starsky's cheek as he valiantly held on, hands clenched together behind him, his knees and thighs screaming from the prolonged kneeling.

Hutch felt like the top was blowing off his head. The repeated swallowing was creating a steady suction on his cock, pulling all of his consciousness down into that one organ. He hadn't let himself relax earlier in the session, being nervous about Starsky's responses. Memories were piling onto him, sending him down the rabbit hole to the last time he'd been deep throated, only it had been Vanessa mouthing him and it had been a true test of the pleasure/pain principle. His arms had been suspended above his head from the doorframe while an unseen hand beat him savagely on the back with a leather strap. Pleasure in front, pain from behind, all without his control. This was so totally different, it was a gift bestowed from his beloved, without recrimination or humiliation. Banishing Vanessa from his thoughts, he let down his guard, leaning back on his hands to increase the drag on his manhood, reveling in the amazing feel of being sucked down the back of Starsky's throat.

"Yes! Yes!" he shouted, "Keep going, baby!" Rearing forward, he grabbed Starsky's head to prevent him from pulling away, weaving his fingers through the tangled curls. Thrusting madly, he almost missed seeing the wetness on Starsky's cheeks, but a tear still pooling in one indigo eye reflected the gutting candle flame, refocusing his attention.

"Starsk!" Hutch popped out his cock in one fell swoop, his hands still supporting his lover's head. "I'm . . . sorry." He mentally chastised himself for letting things get out of control, rubbing a calming hand on the dark haired man's cheek while Starsky coughed, gulping in huge breaths of sweet air.

"It was good," Starsky protested weakly when he'd gotten enough oxygen to support speech. "Intense. I knew you wouldn't let anything happen. I trusted you."

Those words pierced Hutch like arrows. "But I wasn't paying attention. I wasn't looking out for your needs."

"Hutch, don't stop now, please." Starsky laid his cheek against Hutch's thigh, the blond hairs growing near his groin like peach fuzz. "I couldn't bear it. I promise, it won't happen again."

"No, it won't," Hutch agreed, wondering how they could continue oral sex and still manage to have him be able to signal his safe word at the same time. A hand symbol, perhaps. "Come on up here, you need a rest and some water, I'll bet."

"Got something in my throat." Starsky smirked, his humor rising to the surface.

"I'll bet you do." Hutch helped him back onto the bed and held up a glass of water to allow him to drink. Using a cool cloth from the bathroom, he sponged off the worst of the sweat and tears, using kisses to sooth Starsky's lingering tremors. "How are you doing, otherwise?"

"Startin' to ache," Starsky admitted honestly, his arms especially from being constantly bound at the small of his back. He stared into those sky blue eyes of his best friend wanting to say everything and unable to articulate even the smallest syllable of what he was thinking. "But not enough to stop. Is there more?"

"You're incorrigible." Hutch grinned; he would never have predicted how wonderfully this day had turned out. That Starsky had taken so eagerly to submission stunned him. Now, if he could only do justice as the Dominant. "I've got lots of ideas, but we need to go slowly, ease into this. Can't walk before you crawl."

"I did," Starsky replied cheekily, his face split with a grin of his own. He wanted it all now, every bondage scenario and sex game he'd ever heard or read about. It was like opening up a pirate's chest full of illicit treasure and finding out that everything inside suited you to a T when you'd never even considered them to your taste before.

"You do everything ass-backwards." Hutch unlatched his cuffed hands, giving him a moment to shake out the numbness. "Which can be a good thing, sometimes."

"You always did like my ass."

"Watch yourself." Hutch assumed his stern demeanor once more. The joking was too easy to fall into, too easy to let them just be Starsky and Hutch fooling around. He had to maintain the control as Top, or the games wouldn't work. "I'm counting demerits for the next session."

Starsky stiffened, both excited and nervous that he'd already earned demerits. Would Hutch use the ruler again, or something more unpleasant? "What will you do to me?"

"That depends on a lot of things." Hutch handed him the glass of water again. Keeping the Bottom well hydrated was an important job. "Drink up. I've got a few more tricks up my sleeve."

Knowing that was all the answer he was going to get, Starsky sipped the cool, refreshing liquid, watching Hutch over the rim of the glass. His chest was so smooth, the muscle definition similar to the classic statue of David, but softer, more human. Starsky found the one thing he didn't like about being submissive was having to police his every move. On any other day of lovemaking, he would reach out, stroke that lightly tanned flesh, maybe kiss the faint bullet scar in the shoulder with a loving caress. Now he had to wait for commands, keeping still when his whole being wanted to move. Patience had never been his strong suit; perhaps that's why he needed to submit, to become more aware of his own limitations.

Hutch had gathered a few more of the supplies he'd purchased earlier in the week and placed them close to the bed for easy access. When Starsky had drained his glass, he took that and the left over canapé tray into the kitchen, removing all extraneous objects off the mattress. Then, without a word, he captured Starsky's left hand in his, swiftly attaching the cuff to the metal bed frame with a clip he'd discovered in a sports store meant for securing ropes during mountain climbing. Once he'd had his head back in the bondage mindset, he'd discovered unusual uses for a number of mundane pieces of equipment.

Starsky was momentarily startled with the speed that Hutch secured him to the bed. His hands were attached up high to the posts at each corner, putting an uncomfortable strain on his shoulders and back.

Again reminding himself to go back and get the matching leather ankle cuffs, Hutch made do with some soft silk rope that usually graced curtains. It was slippery enough not to scrape the skin, but it took a lot of length to tie Starsky's ankles to each lower corner of the bed. His legs were spread-eagled as widely as it was possible to go, exposing his genitals and buttocks lewdly.

"This will be about how much you can take." Hutch said softly, coming up close to sit on the side of the bed, his forefinger tracing a delicate line from the ring on the collar around Starsky's neck to his belly button. Starsky shivered at the touch, a rush of adrenaline slamming into his bloodstream, revving his nervous system. The splendid, intoxicating delight of bondage was the not knowing, the waiting to find out what would be next.

"Do you remember your safe word?" Hutch continued his journey downward, not quite reaching the groin before dipping upwards again, following the hollow created by the jut of the hipbone.

"Torino," Starsky whispered, his tone matching Hutch's.

"Good." The blond man reached over the side of the bed, rummaging around in the box he'd placed on the floor, his left hand still drawing arcane symbols on Starsky's flat belly. "I'm going to put these on your nipples—you have to wear them for ten minutes." He produced a gold chain with a small clip on each end. "You can tell me if they hurt, but you still have to wear them the whole time. I have a few things to distract you during that time, but the only thing that will make me take them off before ten minutes is the safe word. Do you understand? No and stop doesn't mean anything to me tonight. But I want to hear how you feel. This is for you . . ."

"A test of endurance." Starsky couldn't take his eyes off the wicked looking little clamps. Once he and Hutch had gone to a strip joint to question a group of dancers about the murder of another stripper. One of the girls had worn tiny spring-loaded clamps with dangling bells attached to each nipple. Every movement she made had been accompanied by a sweet tinkling, like the fairy bells announcing Tinker Bell in the musical Peter Pan. Fascinated, Starsky had remarked to Hutch that they must hurt like hell but the girl never complained or removed them. Thinking back, he realized she'd also worn a gold chain fastened tightly around her neck. She must have been someone's slave, dancing on the stage for their amusement.

"Talking without permission." Hutch pinched Starsky's right nipple, the clamp biting down with a ferocious grip. Starsky arched against the pain, panting in surprise. Even though he was prepared for the second one, it still set his teeth on edge. "Although, it's allowable." Hutch minutely adjusted the position of each clamp, his stomach twisting in sympathy with Starsky's effort to resist the urge to cry out. He knew how nipple clamps seemed to increase their pain as time passed, instead of becoming background sensation the way most things did. The pain was insistent, pushing aside all attempts to dull it down. "Because you're right." Winding the delicate chain that linked the two clamps around one long finger, he gave a minute tug.

"Oh, shit," Starsky whimpered, closing his eyes to decrease the external stimuli. His pain threshold was pretty high, but this was outrageous. All his pain receptors seemed to have settled in two points on his chest, sending out distress calls that he couldn't answer. "Take 'em off."

Then, a totally different sensation assaulted him, something soft and feathery fluttered over his toes and swept down his right instep. Having deprived himself of sight his sense of touch had increased, his skin overly sensitive. The feather tickled and in spite of the throbbing pain from his chest, he giggled.

"I knew you'd like that," Hutch said fondly, applying the feather lightly to the other foot. Starsky wiggled his toes, trying to escape the teasing torture, but he was tied too tightly. His breath was coming in heaving gulps, caught between the laughter and the pain.

As the feather whispered slowly over his body, Starsky felt himself transported into a realm of pure physical sensation. Everything was heightened to the nth degree, a swirl of conflicting and confusing emotions—pleasure and pain, anticipation and trepidation, even love and fear all squashed together in a glorious soup of pure energy. They were all one, impossible to untangle. Just as in real life there was no one correct way to react. This world, this BDSM relationship was both scary and stupendous. His heart beat faster, his breath quickened, a flush warming his body with each new onslaught. Were these symptoms of excitement and erotic arousal or terror? There was no difference and there was every difference. He feared the pain that could be inflicted on him, but his whole body felt alive and revitalized, giving up his soul to pure hedonism.

Hutch drew the feather one last time across the prostrate body, watching Starsky twitch to try and evade the tickling, then laid it on the nightstand. He hadn't quite decided what exquisite torture to bedevil his partner with next when his gaze fell on one of the dripping candles. Scooping a tiny dribble of the melting wax onto the end of his finger, he nodded in satisfaction.

Starsky's eyes flew open when the flame of a candle dipped too close to the smooth underside of his elbow. He wasn't burned, but a drop of hot wax splattered onto his skin, giving off a tiny heat. It wasn't even really too hot to bear, certainly not enough to injure or scar, cooling quickly once it solidified on his skin, but it was an irritant. Added to the ache from his swollen, pinched nipples it was almost too much to bear.

Focusing on the yellow bright flame of the candle left wavering after images on his retinas, so Starsky closed his eyes again, tensely waiting for each tiny heat bomb to bombard his already overloaded nervous system. How much more could he take? Twisting away from the frightening heat of the flame re-ignited the bone deep pain of the clamps on his nipples and he cried out, unable to keep silent any longer.

"That's it," Hutch encouraged, "Talk to me, tell me what you're feeling."

"No more. Please," Starsky begged, his fingers clenching reflexively, the cuffs so tight he couldn't even turn his wrists to grab onto the bed frame. He felt suspended in space without a safety harness, even though his body was anchored firmly to the bed. "It hurts, it's too much . . ." His safe word surged forward, ready to leap out of his mouth but at the last moment he couldn't, wouldn't submit . . .

Using a fingernail to pick the cooled wax off his lover's collarbone, Hutch kissed the leftover red mark with sweet lips. Then pausing a moment, he slicked his hands with sweet smelling almond oil to facilitate the removal of the wax chips. When he moved his fingers over Starsky's skin they left a slippery, erotic snail trail of oil. Every place he'd dribbled wax he now dappled with kisses, replacing the tiny hurts with love. The gentleness and care of his ministrations swept through Starsky's veins like a balm. Everything still hurt, but he wanted those kisses so, wanted Hutch's touch on his bruised and gently tormented body.

"I'm going to take the clamps off, one by one." Hutch used the ball of his thumb to stroke Starsky's cheek, smiling when he opened his eyes again. "You were fantastic; you did it, lover. Ten minutes on the first time. I'm really proud of you. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

Wondering why there was such an implicit warning in Hutch's words, Starsky obliged him, drawing in a shaky breath that jostled the clamps alarmingly. That was nothing, though, to the excruciating pain that hit when Hutch released the first clamp, all the blood flooding back into the nipple in a rush. Starsky yelled. The jolt was as strong as a defibulator shock, only his cock was the organ that responded, coming semi-erect in a single moment. How could such pain arouse him so thoroughly? Being shot had never had that effect on him. Maybe it had something to do with the warm, moist mouth that now lapped and sucked on his abused breast, soothing the hurt with tenderness.

Starsky panted with exertion, wanting the second one off fast, to get the pain over with quick like when he pulled a Band-Aid off his hairy arm. Still, even knowing it was coming, he howled, tears in his eyes. Hutch was peppering his body with kisses and comforting strokes, centering more and more down in the groin area.

"We're almost done," Hutch whispered, running his finger down Starsky's hard penis, amused at how his touch made it jump. "You can come when I say so and not before."

He was so primed that Starsky had to grit his teeth not to orgasm just from the butterfly touch of Hutch's lips on his nuts. "W-when?" he groaned, the pain draining away from his chest like it had never been, leaving behind mostly muscle strain from the stretched position he'd maintained for nearly half an hour now. At least he thought it was that long, it felt like a lifetime. Now all his attention was focused on his gonads, throbbing like a sore tooth demanding to be pulled.

"When I'm ready." Hutch was unwinding the rope from around each ankle, spending long minutes rubbing the circulation into each foot and massaging Starsky's calves and feet. He used not only his strong, flexible fingers, but his lips and tongue, reducing Starsky to a puddle of vibrating nerves.

"I'm ready." Starsky insisted, which earned him a smack on the bottom of his foot, but Hutch knew he couldn't tease him much longer.

"When I count to five . . ." Hutch lightly grasped the skin covered steel rod, reading on Starsky's face how much he needed the release. "No, when I count to three, you can come." He closed his fist, pumping three times as he counted.

With his legs free, Starsky braced his feet against Hutch's leather encased thigh, lifting his buttocks off the bed when the climax hit with the force of a freight train. His whole body spasmed repeatedly, semen squirting upwards like a fountain. Finally exhausted, Starsky collapsed onto the bed, hanging limply from his bound hands.

"Do you know how much I love you?" Hutch unclipped the restraints holding Starsky in place, catching his arms as they dropped. He pushed the damp curls off Starsky's forehead, kissing his eyelids. "You were so brave. The way you handled yourself today . . ." Gathering his fatigued partner onto his lap, he cuddled him like a small child, massaging his stiff shoulders and back. "How you doing, you big lug?"

"I'm whipped," Starsky confessed then giggled as his inadvertent pun, allowing himself to be coddled because he was too tired to get off Hutch's lap.

"I'll bet." Hutch nuzzled his nose into the warm, redolent curve of Starsky's neck. He smelled of sex and sweat mixed with the heady aroma of leather from the collar. Hutch couldn't get enough of looking at him collared and cuffed. Owned. He looked so desirable, a living, breathing sex toy that also happened to be his best friend. What more could a man want?

"I can't believe you did all this for me." Starsky gestured expansively at the beautiful room bedecked with candles and the left over silken rope still looped around the bedposts. The feather lay on the floor next to the box of sex toys, some still in their original packages. There were more for another day.

"Well, the house is borrowed, the candles were 99 cents for a pack of six and the rope's off the curtains from my old place." Hutch smirked. "Getting the rest of the stuff was pure pleasure because I was thinking of you the whole time."

"But you didn't get anything for yourself." Starsky leaned his head on the blond man's shoulder, his bare ass resting on Hutch's smooth leather clad lap bringing back a version of his original fantasy. Hutch dressed in leather caressing his nude body. Sometimes fantasies do come true, and Carlysle didn't even enter into it.

Laughing, Hutch wrapped his arms around that which brought him the most joy. "Starsky, you dunce, I got everything . . . you gave me more than I could ever have imagined."

"I still think you did all the work. I was just lyin' around."

"That was the hard part." Hutch regarded him fondly, glad Starsky was finally talking. Bondage wasn't a slam-bam, thank-you-man kind of relationship. It required open discussion, and planning to ensure that both parties got out of it what they desired. Hurt feelings and miscommunication were the worst possible combination when someone was tied up and bearing the lash of a whip.

"Maybe, but you overestimated me. I wasn't sure I could take what you were dishing out . . ."

"On the contrary, I underestimated your strengths on every front. You're a natural . . ."

"Slave?" Starsky voiced the word for the first time, his voice unsteady, hunching his shoulders defensively.

"Yeah, babe. A slave." Hutch rubbed his palms over the goosebumps suddenly pebbling Starsky's naked flesh, "That scares you, doesn't it?"

"It's just too damned strange to think of myself as someone who'd . . . let you . . . anybody . . . do that kind of thing to me." He stared down at his cuffed wrists, symbols of his enslavement. Every time he turned his head, swallowed, spoke or just breathed, the band around his neck tightened, instantly reminding him of what he was and what he'd agreed to. "If we were called out to a house on a domestic dispute and some woman told me her husband tied her up and beat her, I woulda thought she was whacked . . ."

"Talk about your Freudian slips," Hutch observed wryly.

"We'd have her shipped off t'some shelter, talkin' to social workers an' therapists inside of an hour and her husband taken away in handcuffs." Starsky wasn't even sure of his point, only that he was confused about what he should be feeling. Was it wrong to like bondage?

"Instead, you're the one in cuffs tonight." Hutch hugged him, understanding all too well the dilemma.

"And I'm the one who got whacked. What makes this acceptable and that so wrong?"

"Me and thee, just like always," Hutch answered simply. "It's all a matter of degree, Starsky, and personal choice. You asked me to do this. We discussed this ahead of time. You may not have totally understood what was going to happen going in, but you had an idea and you agreed to let me . . . control you and physically restrain you. That abused wife never had a say in the matter."

"It's scary as hell."

"It is for me, too." Hutch rested his chin on Starsky's shoulder. "Do you feel abused?"

"No, never. More like loved."

"Thank you." Hutch kissed the edge of his jaw because it was literally inches from his lips. "Your trust means more to me than gold, babe. I get scared I could go too far, hurt you for real when I don't mean to. It's so easy to slip up and damage something very precious."

"I'm not made of china, and you wouldn't be able to." Starsky twisted around so he could gaze into those beautiful eyes. "You didn't hurt me tonight, just aches and pains that'll fade. Love takes care of the little stuff."

"Are you having any second thoughts?" Hutch asked worriedly, afraid, despite Starsky's words that he wanted to back out.

"Oh, man, third, fifth, ninety-ninth . . . but they're always the same. I'm where I belong." Starsky was still holding himself with rigid tension but he let out a lungful of air, relaxing infinitesimally. "It's like I've changed so much everyone should be able to see."

"There are no visible marks." Hutch cupped both of Starsky's wrists, massaging his palms. "Nobody will know but me and nobody else's opinion really matters. I like doing this with you, but it's not the end of the world if we stop. I won't be hurt."

"No, but I will. That would hurt more than those damned little alligator teeth things." Starsky curled his lip with a mock snarl. "You're sure nobody will be able to tell?"

"Well, Huggy can be pretty perceptive." Hutch shrugged with a slight smile.

"You know I can't go into the Pits ever again." Starsky grimaced with only half faked embarrassment. He settled back when Hutch shifted his legs, situating Starsky between his thighs instead of on top of them.

"You're getting' heavy, Starsk." Hutch reached around, unbuckling the left wrist cuff. Starsky started to protest that he wanted to keep them on, but didn't have enough energy to speak up. Instead, he watched lethargically when Hutch bared the second wrist. Both were reddened where the leather had been but relatively free of any other marks, just as Hutch had assured him. He flexed his joints, wincing at the chorus of twinges that produced. His whole body felt like he'd run a full marathon and then engaged in a strenuous workout directly afterwards.

"Are you up for the hot tub?" Hutch untangled his long legs, standing.

"Is that a rhetorical question or just a pun?" Starsky secretly lusted at his lover standing there with the light of the candles dancing in his hair and his butt so tightly packed into those sexy pants, surprised to find he was even still thinking about sex. "Cause I don't think I'll be up for anything for a long time."

"C'mon, c'mon." Hutch pushed him to his feet, snugging an arm around him. "The Jacuzzi awaits us."

"Isn't it still raining?" Starsky inquired, staring out the window, realizing night had fallen when he wasn't paying attention. There were droplets of water on the glass, the darkness reflecting his nakedness like a distorted mirror. Hutch led him through the house, blowing out candles as they passed. He flipped on overhead tract lighting when they arrived in a room off the kitchen, decorated for comfortable eating and relaxation. A small table was set intimately for two and a pile of strangely familiar looking videos was set next to the VCR, promising a night of movies and good food later on.

"You could be the weather man—don't even need to wear rubbers." Hutch joked, swinging open the French doors leading to a redwood deck and a sunken hot tub, steaming in the cooling evening. Rain fell steadily, pockmarking the surface of the water.

Shucking his leather pants, Hutch walked out into the rain and ducked into the bubbles. He sighed languidly, relaxing back against the blue tiles that lined the tub. Rain glistened in his hair, dripping down his face. "C'mon, in Starsk, the water's fine."

"Don't have the good sense t'come in out of the rain?" Starsky dawdled, less than enthused at sitting in a downpour.

"Watch yourself." He shook what Starsky had always termed the Hutchinson finger. "I'm still in charge around here."

"How could I forget? You keep reminding me," Starsky snarked, belatedly adding, "Master." He was courting more demerits but didn't care. He liked living on the edge. Following the blond man's lead, somewhat more slowly, he dipped a foot into the one hundred and three degree water, puffing out his cheeks as his skin adjusted to the temperature. Deciding it wasn't too hot, he slid the rest of his body down, sitting on the narrow ledge just beside a Jacuzzi jet. Frothy bubbles burbled around him like tiny sea creatures, caressing his strained muscles. "Feels good."

"Nothing better," Hutch agreed, focusing on his partner, particularly on his neck with the beautiful brown leather band. "I forgot to take the collar off."

"Leave it on." Starsky molded his hand around the hard, unforgiving leather, not willing to part with it yet.

"Until tomorrow morning?" Hutch asked, touched beyond his wildest dreams.

"Until I die," Starsky whispered. "But I guess until we go back to work."

"No problem." Hutch leisurely watched the raindrops plop into the bubbling water.

Sitting beside Starsky, he thanked the gods, whoever they may be, that sanctioned situations like these, that he had such a man in his life. Neither spoke, just reveling in the revitalizing powers of the hot tub, each caught up in his own thoughts. Hutch found he couldn't completely zone out, his mind already conjuring up future sessions, sexy ideas percolating to the surface like the broiling bubbles that surrounded him. Tipping his head back to catch the raindrops on his face, he realized the downpour had ended, a gentle breeze blowing the inky clouds across the night sky. The waxing crescent moon was just peeking out, a secret smile on its lunar face.

"Hutch?" Starsky broke the silence, and the no-talking-without-permission rule, but Hutch didn't call him on it.

"Yah?"

"Yesterday you said no pain play on the first time." Starsky wiggled a little, the hard tile bench unrelentingly on his sore behind. "But I was barely inside the door before you were smacking my ass."

"I changed my mind. Circumstances dictated I take a stance."

"You just wanted to—um—knock some sense into me." Starsky laughed and got a stern look for his teasing. Laying his head on the tiled rim of the tub, he gazed up at the stars twinkling above. Their little haven was far enough away from the city lights to provide a panorama of stars across the heavens, even on a rainy evening. In fact, Starsky thought he'd never seen anything lovelier than Hutch swathed in gossamer steam, crowned by the Milky Way. His hair gleamed silvery in the night, like an earthbound star.

"Doesn't seem to have worked either, or you'd be a little more respectful." Hutch glared but there was no malice behind it. He'd always known Starsky would be a defiant submissive, constantly flaunting the rules. That was pure David Starsky in a nutshell.

"What do you have up your sleeve for the next time?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Hutch scooted closer, winding his long legs around Starsky's. "I have too many ideas; it's hard narrowing it down."

"Give me a hint?" Starsky coaxed.

"Just a taste." Hutch captured Starsky's left ear in with his teeth, sucking briefly on the little fat lobe before nipping with his sharp canines.

"Ow!" Starsky complained, rubbing. With the pad of his finger he could feel a tiny indentation in his tender flesh.

"One word," Hutch tempted him. "Pierce."