Equal and Opposite
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Standing in front of Venice Place, Starsky had never felt such formless dread coupled with boundless anticipation. He took the stairs slowly, prepared to turn around and flee with every step. This could change everything—would change everything they’d had.
If he didn’t react, it would drive an immoveable wedge between them. Hutch surely knew that.
Raising his fist to rap knuckles on the door, Starsky stopped and reached higher, searching the lintel for the key. His hand was shaking when he tried to insert the key into the lock, and he had to inhale slowly to suppress the overload of adrenaline.
Starsky pushed the door open, peering around for his friend. The room was dark, every light out, weak illumination provided by the streetlight outside. Hutch could not have left so quickly, without Starsky knowing it. He’d have seen him, right?
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
Starsky shuddered, finally locating Hutch standing by the sink in the kitchen with a glass in his hand.
“I—“ Starsky had no idea how to start, how to articulate the tangled knot of fear and desire inside without sounding like a terrified fool. If he complied, was he weak? If he walked away, what did he have left? He took a single step into the house, letting the door close behind him. “I want you to punish me.”
“No,” Hutch said firmly. “That I will not do.”
“But you said—“ Floored, he sorted through the memory of their conversation less than an hour ago. Had Hutch actually said what Starsky thought he had? “You wanted to tie me up and hurt me.”
“I want to alter what we have to—“ Hutch put the glass down on the counter.
The clink of the glass on Formica sounded overly loud. Starsky thought of going over to his partner, to connect, but something kept him frozen in one spot. “By hitting me?”
“Starsky, if you don’t want to then what’s done is done.” Hutch sounded so incredibly reasonable. “I will not force, I don’t punish. It’s—“ He spread his hands, clearly unable to explain the impetus for a modification of their relationship.
Hutch walked across the kitchen into the living space, shadows sliding over the floor as he moved like spectral beings separate from his physical body. “I’ve wanted this for a long time—gone to some clubs, but I didn’ t like how anonymous--“ He shrugged, “how …impersonal those encounters were.”
He stopped directly in front of Starsky, close enough to touch as they usually would have but neither did. In the dimness, Hutch appeared different, not the familiar blond Starsky spent seventy-five percent of his time with. Not quite the same soft-hearted but tough as nails cop who liked veal, country music, and yoga.
Starsky’s partner, his lover.
Who apparently liked BDSM.
“I wanted it—no, I needed it infused with love,” Hutch finished quietly. “I wanted you there, with me, beside me.”
“Under you.” Every fiber in Starsky’s body craved yielding to Hutch, bending under his will and taking whatever he dished out. Except Starsky’s pride kept him stubbornly resisting. He was not into servitude or dependency. “Whadda you call it, masochism? Sadism? It’s…. a perversion, Hutch. We arrest people like that.”
“When have you ever?” Hutch countered as if they were discussing a recent movie they’d disagreed on and not some life altering decision.
“Point taken,” Starsky said. “Why?”
And why did he want Hutch to do it to him? Despite all his protestations, the image of himself kneeling in front of Hutch had taken hold with a vengeance. Hutch looked magnificent in his vision, tall as a redwood tree, wearing leather pants, his bare chest glistening with sweat. His strong, classical features pure and mighty, gazing down at Starsky below. Starsky couldn’t move his limbs, but the fantasy was too limited for him to know why. Or what would happen next.
“It’s a fetish,” Hutch said quietly. “Been inside me since I was—I don’t know, young. I’d read a novel before bed, and then, falling asleep, I’d change things. When the hero was captured by the bad guy, the spy taken prisoner by the Nazis, whatever, in my head, he’d be bound and gagged, someone menacing close by…and…”
“You’d get hard.” Starsky had had those daydreams, too. His groin tingled, scrotum tightening at Hutch’s story. He wanted to pee in the worst way, but more than anything, he wanted to kneel in front of Hutch and beg for things he couldn’t even begin to describe.
“I wasn’t even sure why, at first,” Hutch confessed, looking over Starsky’s left shoulder toward the window behind him, his eyes bleak as if he’d lost his last friend.
They were so close together, Starsky could smell the scent of him, feel the warmth, the allure of Hutch’s body. They were so good together, so in sync either on the job or in bed.
Sure they fought. They had differing opinions and perspectives, they enjoyed a challenge or competition, but when all was said and done, there was no one Starsky trusted more.
“Until one day—years later, I realized that it wasn’t being tied up that turned me on,” Hutch continued. “I wanted to be the guard, the one in charge—“
Starsky’s cock was rock hard. Fuck. “If you wanted to hit me—“
“Use my belt against your skin,” Hutch specified, unbuckling the length of leather and sliding it out of the belt loops. “Touching you all over. A caress at first, slowly and smooth. Not a punishment.” He held it out, draped over both hands. “Never, ever a punishment.”
“I know. Fucking scary.” Hutch let the belt slide to the floor and raised his hand slowly.
Mesmerized, Starsky held his ground, waiting—for what he wasn’t certain. Not for a beating, that was for sure.
“I’m scared, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, fitting his palm to Starsky’s cheek. It molded perfectly to the curve of his jaw, Hutch’s thumb just touching his bottom lip, one finger brushing the mole below his right eye. “I’m taking a chance, going out on a limb, I guess you’d call it—“
Starsky pressed into his hand, turning enough to kiss the base of his thumb. He was all in, freaked to his eyeballs but completely under Hutch’s spell. Still, he hesitated.
“Don’t chop down the tree before you—“
“Pluck the fruit?” Hutch skimmed his other hand down Starsky’s body to gently cup his heated groin. Starsky trembled and melted into him. Hutch wrapped both arms around to draw him so close they could have been one body. Their hearts pounded against one another, corporeal Morse code spelling out their sensual desires. “God, I love you, Starsk.”
“I—“ How did he say all that was inside him? That the idea of being struck was such a turn-on he couldn’t think of anything else and yet didn’t want to feel that belt on his skin, ever. “I love you. It’s…all the other stuff. Pain play, uh—“ Starsky spread both hands on Hutch’s chest, looking down at his own wrists so he wouldn’t drown in Hutch’s demands. His rock hard cock made thinking all the more difficult. “No beating—“
“Negotiation is an important part of the process.” Hutch gently towed Starsky into the bedroom. “What would you like?”
Starsky balked, suddenly afraid of landing on the bed. Once there, he’d be susceptible to Hutch’s whims. On his own two feet, he had some semblance of autonomy. “I—“ He kept picturing Hutch above him, taking his wrists—both of them in one of Hutch’s hands, which in reality couldn’t possibly happen. Hutch did have bigger hands, but they weren’t gigantic. “Restrained---“
As if he’d been arrested.
“Good cop, bad guy?” Hutch said with a slight smile. “Maybe I forgot to read you the Miranda Rights?’
Oh, yeah. Starsky sucked in a breath. Hutch knew him too well. He lowered his chin, giving one jerky nod. “Spoiling for a fight…”
Hutch strong-armed him, turning Starsky so fast that he stumbled and nearly went head first into the wall. Hutch didn’t let him, controlling the movement with one hand on his back and the other wrapped tightly around Starsky’s wrist, drawing it behind him.
Lust marinated every single atom in Starsky’s body. God, he wanted this, wanted this force, this rigid control.
Hutch slammed him just hard enough against the wall to prove who was in charge without really hurting Starsky. “You know what’s going to happen, boy?” he whispered in a deep voice, Hutch-like and not, at the same time. Using his knee pressed between Starsky’s legs to keep him in place, Hutch yanked both of Starsky’s arms together.
Abruptly aware he could—and was probably expected to—struggle, Starsky twisted slightly, to wrest his dominant arm free. Hutch body-slammed him, wrenching his arms back so severely Starsky coughed, unable to inhale. He shifted his hips and Hutch ground his knee into Starsky’s groin from behind, mashing his cock and balls.
Astonishingly painful but incredible, like sex.
“You’re mine,” Hutch whispered, and amazingly, for one moment, he did have both Starsky’s wrists in one tight grip.
Bliss. Desperately pulling his diminished wits away from the spiraling desire, Starsky drew himself inward for a sudden attack when he heard a sharp click.
Hutch slid the solid metal of a cuff around Starsky’s right wrist.
Revitalized, Starsky swung wide as Hutch went for his left wrist. Now Starsky had a weapon, the empty cuff dangling from his arm. Pressing his left hand against the wall, he angled himself away.
Hutch chuckled, sidestepping the swing of the irons, arms spread so widely Starsky had nowhere to go. Feigning a move to the left, Starsky moved his right leg as Hutch reversed his spin, wrapping both arms around him.
The position was perfect for Hutch to finish cuffing his prisoner. Astonished and beyond aroused, Starsky went to his knees, pressing his face into Hutch’s hot crotch.
“Bring me off and I’ll go easy on you,” Hutch cajoled in a sensual growl. He unzipped, pushing his fly open.
“No.” Starsky went back on his heels, staring up at Hutch. In the low light from the small bedside lamp, he looked like a Viking or some Nordic king. All that blond hair, wild after their tussling, his broad chest heaving from the battle. Abruptly, Starsky knew he held more power than he’d ever expected, even cuffed and on his knees. Possibly an unscrupulous dominant would force him to do things he hadn’t bargained on, but not Hutch. Hutch balanced the equation, asked for his input. “I want you—“
Hutch’s fingers stilled on the open crotch of his jeans, one eyebrow cocked quizzically.
“Inside me.” He could already feel it, that thick log penetrating him to the core. His cock throbbed, bruised and needy.
Hutch laughed with an emphatic nod. “That I can do. You, however, have far too many clothes on.”
Starsky’s almost forgotten he was cuffed and started to turn his upper arms. Damn. But on the other hand—if he had a third one—taking his shirt off would necessitate unlocking the cuffs. “Got the key?” he asked brazenly, shaking his wrists so that the metal clattered.
“Nope.” Hutch hooked a hand under Starsky’s elbow to help him up. “Don’t need one right now.” Once Starsky was on his feet, Hutch took down his zipper, shucking the jeans in record time. He pushed Starsky onto the bed to remove his Adidas and pull the jeans off completely.
Lying on his back, his cuffed hands trapped under his body, Starsky felt powerful, the one controlling the action. “What’re you gonna do about my shirt?” he taunted with a savage grin. Hutch got off on competition. Always had. “Cause you ain’t cutting it.” Starsky sounded raw and guttural, even to himself.
Hutch put his hands on his hips, the corners of his lips curling up, as if he was considering all options. “You’re a demanding sub, telling me exactly what you do and don’t want. What about what I want?” He reached under Starsky’s red shirt, shoving it up slightly to place his palms directly on Starsky’s belly, kneading gently as he advanced upwards towards his pectorals. He ran his fingers over the landscape of Starsky’s torso, investigating each hill and valley, every bump and scar.
Starsky couldn’t move, wouldn’t, sinking into the intimacy, feeling Hutch’s hand raise and lower whenever he took a breath. It was like Hutch was memorizing every inch of him; incredibly sensual but with a certain threat that something else could occur at any time.
Hutch pushed the shirt up higher, made an impatient noise in the back of his throat and lowered his head, fitting his teeth around one of Starsky’s nipples.
Starsky liked nipple play. Would not be the first time Hutch had licked or even nipped him in their sex life. He liked that spark of pain and promise of arousal.
Hutch bit hard, grinding his top teeth into flesh, a sexual vampire with a hunger for lust. Starsky let out a startled cry, more surprised than actually hurt, pushing up with his thigh muscles to knock Hutch away.
Once again proving that he’d earned that long ago college wrestling letter, Hutch nimbly stepped to the side, using Starsky’s forward momentum to sit him upright on the edge of the bed. He pulled Starsky’s arms straight behind to maneuver the shirt around shoulders and neck.
Restrained by his own clothing, Starsky rotated to the left to get leverage as Hutch wrangled the shirt up and over his head.
“What the fuck?” Starsky cried, both enraged and amused by Hutch’s cunning. He couldn’t see with the shirt bunched across his face, and wiggled his shoulders.
“Didn’t want me to cut it off…” Hutch inverted the shirt so that the short sleeves were pinned around Starsky's biceps. “Good look on you,” Hutch said, guiding Starsky’s arms down against his spine. With one last definitive move, he shoved as much fabric as would fit into Starsky’s mouth. “And you wouldn’t suck me off, so I’ll have to take matters into my own…” He let Starsky fall back onto the bed and gathered up Starsky’s cock and balls with both hands.
Breathing fast, Starsky spread his thighs wider, wanting the rough touch in the worst way. Hutch alternated between brutal play that hurt like a mother and sweet, erotic caresses that left Starsky balanced between nirvana and hell. He panted, the cotton t-shirt wicking the saliva in his mouth, leaving his tongue sandpaper dry.
He could hear Hutch breathing heavily, smell his testosterone scented aroma. Wanted to gaze into those summerblue eyes, but his need was too immediate. Hutch brought him to the edge, rimming a finger around the old scar from his circumcision before scraping his nail up and into the slit on the end.
“Hu—ssh,” Starsky whined, cock rigidly erect and painfully hard.
“Not your turn,” Hutch whispered with fiendish delight, taking his hands away.
Starsky snapped open eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. How did he finagle the finish? He began to sit up, legs wide so that he didn’t brush against his needy genitals.
Hutch put a hand on his chest to stop him. “Time to turn around,” he said, gesturing a circle with that damned forefinger. "You wanted me inside you…”
True. And lying face down on the bed could be exactly what it took to climax—he just needed a couple more strokes, he could feel the teeter-totter edge of his orgasm pressing against his nerves.
Flipping around awkwardly due to his bound wrists, Starsky crouched with his knees bent, face smashed into the coverlet. It wasn’t the most comfortable position but he could use the friction of the fabric to his advantage.
“Up on your knees.” Hutch smacked his hand lightly on Starsky’s rump, something he’d done many the time over a pair of jeans.
Didn’t hurt in the least, but Hutch’s palm on Starsky’s naked flesh felt seductive, primal in a way it never had before. He wasn’t turned on by spanking or swats—he’d received too many of those in his childhood.
This restraint, Hutch holding him in place, telling him what to do in that dark seductive voice turned him inside out. What would have pissed Starsky off if they were in the Torino on a case, had the power to melt him into a puddle of submissive need when the cuffs were around his wrists. While he couldn’t fathom why that was, he finally understood why he’d had the urge to run when he thought Hutch would beat him with that belt.
Abandoning any hope of getting his rocks off by rubbing on the coverlet, Starsky obeyed, shifting up onto his knees, an awkward position that smashed his cheek into the puffy fabric, further shoving the t-shirt into his mouth. He rotated his shoulders, clasping his hands to reduce the strain on his upper arms.
“Won’t be long, love,” Hutch said provocatively, swirling something slick and cool around Starsky’s anus. “I’m primed and you look…incredible. Never imagined it could be this…” He rested the tip of his penis against Starsky’s opening, pushing very slowly at first.
They’d done this many times before, but not this way. Starsky groaned, well used to the sensation of the blunt thickness shoving inward. He loved having Hutch inside him, sometimes dreamed of it for days afterwards whenever he felt the slight burn of stretched muscles.
It hurt but didn’t, in a mystical realm where all sensation swirled into a miasma of impressions. He floated on lust, screaming with the cramping pain of Hutch’s thrusts, muscles contracting to prevent expelling their prize.
Damn. Hutch was too big for that narrow, secret space. And yet he fit perfectly, a medieval sword slotted into place. Starsky would have held onto him forever, riding the undulating waves of incredible desire and flickering pain that flared through his core.
Hutch hummed, deep and primal, shoving Starsky forward slightly with each lunge, seeming to swell ever larger to take over Starsky’s very existence.
It was equal power and opposition, both bowing to the whims of the other to create balance.
Hutch clamped his hands on Starsky’s thighs, holding him in place as he orgasmed. A mighty warrior proclaiming his victory.
Starsky bit down hard on the t-shirt gag as the climax ricocheted through him in rippling surges. His knees buckled when Hutch released hold, splaying out on the bed. Still buried deeply, Hutch hunched over Starsky, panting.
There was only one ending. Starsky knew without reason, without a doubt what that had to be, He wanted it so desperately he could have begged if he’d been able. But the abhorrent idea of asking to be swatted with a leather belt held his tongue more firmly that the gag.
Hutch stood slowly behind him, leaving a kiss on the back of Starsky’s neck like a blessing. When he moved away, Starsky didn’t. Not because he was afraid of censor from his—what was Hutch now? His Master? The dominant? No, he didn’t move because he was well aware there was more to come.
Could read what Hutch needed to do without looking at him, without speaking a word.
Hutch inhaled, so close and yet so far away. “I have the belt,” he said quietly. “Do you consent?” He reached around and wrested the soggy mass of shirt from between Starsky’s lips.
“I do,” Starsky said reverently. This had to be. It was scary. It would hurt, might even cause tears, not that he would ever allow them to fall. This was the bliss, in a strange, strange way. It was wrapped up in the two of them, the good with the bad, the joy with the ache; love woven into every sinew.
It wasn’t punishment. It was sex, delivered in their own unique fashion.
“How many?” he asked when nothing happened. His shoulders hurt because of the awkward position, arms imprisoned behind his back and the shirt twisted around his lower face and neck. Turning his head, Starsky could just see his blond lover standing there, naked and strong, the belt held taut between right and left hands.
“How many years have we known each other?”
Hutch looked straight into his eyes. Giving him the freedom to decline. The ball was in his court.
“Seven,” Starsky’s voice trembled, he couldn’t help it. Seven swats?
Hutch drew the belt softly down the curve of Starsky’s buttocks from his spine to the thigh as he had done earlier. Velvety, like stroking a cat.
The second was infinitesimally stronger, warm wind gusting across his bare ass.
Unlike the common practice in most kinky novels and X rated movies, Hutch was not forcing his submissive to count the blows. He did it himself, in a calm, serious voice.
Starsky tensed, sure that Hutch would strike him harder with the next time. Three and four were barely love taps; Hutch had whacked him harder in jest after a game of pool or basketball.
Trembling in the tension between his reality and the anticipation of pain, Starsky shifted his body to relieve the stress on his shoulders.
Due to his position change, the belt curled around Starsky’s hip. The tail landed harder than expected, a warm flush zipping from his groin to his chest.
Damn. How did that kindle such arousal? His cock swelled so quickly, the skin ached, primed to pop from the abrupt surge.
“Hutch…” he ground out, not quite sure what he was asking for but needing it now.
“Is this…” So controlled earlier, Hutch sounded breathless, pressured. “Good f-for…”
Starsky twisted his neck just as number six landed like a firecracker on his already heated skin. Fizzy pulsations ramped up his need to a fever pitch. He caught sight of Hutch pumping himself with his left hand, face slack with lust, and clutching the belt in his right.
Hutch roared, arm raised as if to serve a tennis ball, slamming the belt down with primal strength. “Seven!”
Starsky orgasmed, raw pain shooting through his core with equal fury. He saw purple and green lights flashing across his eyes, barely able to draw in a breath.
Best damn fuck he’d ever had. How was that possible?
And when could they do it again?
Hutch staggered, all but collapsing onto the end of the bed. He rested both hands on his thighs, panting audibly. Starsky was mashed against him on the right, unable to move. Didn’t care, really. He loved the feel of Hutch’s big, sweaty body close against his and inhaled to memorize the scent of their lovemaking.
After a few minutes, Hutch touched Starsky’s cheek. “God, I love you.”
“That was no punishment,” Starsky said, beginning to feel the raw sting of the stripe across his butt. His tight jeans were going to be uncomfortable for a day or two.
“No,” Hutch whispered. Even though they were so close together, he seemed distant, as if holding himself apart in case Starsky rejected him.
“I didn’ t know what I thought… Expected,” Starsky said as Hutch stood up to ease Starsky’s thighs off the bed so that his feet were solid on the floor. A better position in all ways.
Hutch reached for the handcuff key he’d left on the bedside table.
“But it wasn’t that.” Starsky admitted as Hutch unlocked the cuffs. Starsky’s hands were numb, his shoulders agonizing when he hunched forward to undo the strain. “That was…terrific.” He turned toward Hutch, rejoicing when Hutch pulled him into his arms. “And terrible, and amazing.”
“I am so glad you are in my life,” Hutch said reverently, resting his cheek against Starsky’s. “Love you.”
“Right back at you, blintz.” Starsky closed his eyes, pressing a kiss against Hutch’s neck, his entire body begging for rest and a couple of aspirin. “When’re we doing that again?”
“Anytime you want, babe.”