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Starsky turned on the TV as soon as he entered Hutch’s apartment. “You get the beers?” He suggested, flipping through channels. “Man, I’m starved. Got anything halfway edible?”

Hutch made a sour face. There was a film on in twenty minutes that he wanted to see and Starsky knew it — Hutch had told him this morning. Of course, that was before everything went to Hell, so maybe Starsky had forgotten. They’d had a long, hard day that had ended with them both taking a dip in the canal and showering off at the department, and Hutch was bone-tired. Starsky would pick some pulpy horror rerun or game show and then whine when Hutch objected and changed the channel. He’d probably do his best to distract Hutch once the movie started, too, and this one required at least enough of his brain to read subtitles. Sighing, Hutch fetched two beers from his fridge and, after thinking for a moment, a carton of strawberries as well. He wished now that he’d bought something more to Starsky’s tastes at the supermarket. It might make Starsky more amenable to Hutch’s choice of programming.

On his way to the couch Hutch glanced toward his bedroom — force of habit at this point even with Starsky present, he never wanted to be caught off-guard by an intruder again — and the yellow duffel bag poking out of his open closet caught his eye. He hadn’t used anything inside it since Abby left and had nearly forgotten about the bag entirely, but now inspiration struck like a lightning bolt. He replaced one beer in the fridge and poured Starsky a shot instead. Starsky raised an eyebrow when Hutch set the goods down on the coffee table.

“If you wanna do shots you gotta offer me something more substantial than fruit, buddy.”

Hutch gave Starsky a pointed look, holding his gaze until Starsky unconsciously licked his lips, sitting up a little straighter. “You need something you can down quick,” Hutch said. “You’re going to be busy.”

“It’s that way tonight, is it?” Starsky grinned.

“Take your shot and strip. I’ll be right back.” Hutch turned out the lights except for one lamp and then retrieved the bag from the closet and a clean, damp towel from the kitchen. Starsky watched him quizzically from the couch, having obediently shucked his clothes off and neatly folded them on Hutch’s desk chair. He was sprawled out almost lazily, but his eyes were alert and his cock twitched with interest, half-hard against his thigh. Hutch noted with approval that the shot glass was empty when he rejoined Starsky. He set the bag on the couch next to Starsky’s feet. Starsky reached for it, unable to contain his curiosity for even a minute, and Hutch slapped his hand playfully. “You don’t know the meaning of the word patience,” Hutch scolded, picking up a strawberry and leaning forward to feed it to Starsky himself. Starsky licked Hutch’s fingers before he pulled them away. “Just one more second babe. Have another.” Hutch pulled the device he had in mind from the bag and gave it a rub-down with the towel to rid it of any dust it had collected since its last cleaning. Then he turned to locate the best outlet.

“Hutch? That’s a girl toy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You got a girl here I don’t know about?”

“She has these big blue eyes and curly hair, and an ass you wouldn’t believe.”

“Very funny. Come on, what’s with the wand?”

A wand it was — a pricey model, too. Hutch answered Starsky’s question with a question. “You trust me?”

“Course,” Starsky said at once.

“Good. Then trust me when I say you don’t want to ruin this magic act. Scoot, babe, I’m gonna take your seat. You get on my lap, okay?”

Starsky did as he was told, settling onto Hutch’s lap facing him once Hutch was seated in front of the TV. “You still got your clothes on,” Starsky said, as though Hutch was unaware.

“Mm-hm. Lean back, Starsk. I've got you.”

Back?

“I've got you. I'm right here,” Hutch helped Starsky lower his shoulder blades to the floor between Hutch’s feet, upside down. Starsky’s cock stood erect between his spread thighs and Hutch indulged himself, leaning down to lick it from root to tip with broad, flat strokes of his tongue that made Starsky shiver. His erection swelled to full hardness under Hutch’s ministrations. Hutch sucked on the flushed and dripping head before sitting back up. He never tired of Starsky’s taste, and part of him wanted to suck Starsky to completion right now, but he had bigger plans. Starsky made a strangled noise of want and reached up to stroke himself. “No,” Hutch said firmly. “Hands on the leg of the coffee table. Both of them. Move them again and I’ll cuff you.”

It was an empty threat — moving was too much bother, and cuffs could injure Starsky if he twisted around — but Starsky bit his lip and wrapped both hands around the coffee table leg over his head, wrists resting on the carpet. Then Hutch removed his own belt. Starsky craned his neck up to watch while Hutch belted the massaging wand to Starsky’s thigh, the rounded tip of it positioned to hold Starsky’s cockhead in place against his stomach. Hutch turned the wand on. The machine humming to life had never sounded quite so nice. Of course, the startled grunt it forced from Starsky’s lips was even nicer. Hutch pulled one other item from his bag of tricks: a large jar of Crisco reserved for non-baking purposes. Then he cracked open his beer, located the remote and changed the channel. The movie was just starting. Perfect.

“Hutch,” Starsky said. His face was deliciously confused. He stared incredulously up at his own cock, leaking viscous clear precum down his belly and matting the hair there, as if it was betraying him.

“Shh, Starsk. I’ve got you,” Hutch repeated. He kept his beer within reach of his left hand. The right, he slicked up with a handful of Crisco, rubbing it between his fingers and then onto Starsky’s spread body. This position was a good one — Hutch would have to remember that. It put Starsky on display, upper ass pressed pillowy into Hutch’s crotch. Hutch felt himself harden in his cords. With Starsky’s legs spread wide, calves hooked behind Hutch’s back for stability, Hutch had a perfect view of Starsky’s hole. And it was fluttering as Starsky’s every muscle clenched under the alien stimulation of the massaging wand humming away against his frenulum. Hutch circled Starsky’s rim with lubed fingertips and Starsky whimpered. Hutch feigned disinterest in Starsky, forcing his eyes back up to the TV screen and taking a slow sip of his beer as he pushed his right index finger inside Starsky’s shuddering body.

“Hutch,” Starsky said again, and this time his voice was sharper. “Hutch, blood’s going to my head…mmn….”

“It won’t kill you,” Hutch said drily. Starsky’s moan made him throb. He was having trouble concentrating on the movie. A redheaded woman on the screen walked slowly through an orange grove in a gossamer gown, and Hutch furrowed his brows at her, wondering if he’d already missed something.

Starsky clenched around his finger as it worked in and out of him, and Hutch gave in to the urge to look down. Starsky’s face was flushed and his pupils were blown wide, making his dark blue eyes even darker. He had leaked a frankly impressive amount of precome down his chest. The furthest drop nearly reached his left nipple. Hutch reached down with his left hand and rubbed it in there, making Starsky curse. Hutch’s fingers were cold from the beer bottle and slick with Starsky’s own fluids, and Starsky’s nipples pebbled up so hard Hutch thought he’d still be able to see them through a sweater. Hutch brought his fingers back up to his mouth and tasted Starsky’s precome on them. Starsky’s thighs trembled on top of his.

“Hutch, what — ah! You’re not even…not even doing anything, shit. I’m close. How am I close?” Starsky’s breath came more rapidly, mouth open, lips soft. His eyes fluttered closed. His prick twitched under the vibrator’s head.

“That’s what you think of me, huh? If I’m not doing anything for you then maybe I just take my finger out and—”

“Nononono Hutch, Hutch please….”

“Well since you’re asking so nicely,” Hutch smirked down at Starsky’s prone form and withdrew his finger, replacing it with two and crooking them just right to circle Starsky’s prostate.

FUCK! Ohhhh ….” Starsky came in a thick white rope that stuck in the hair on his belly. “Oh god,” he croaked, and then whined as the vibrator whirred away on his overstimulated cockhead and Hutch kept up his slow circles. Starsky took two gasping breaths and then said plaintively, “Babe, I came.”

It took all of Hutch’s concentration not to laugh. He directed his eyes back up at the television screen and reached for his beer, not missing a beat with the fingers of his other hand buried up his partner’s backside. “Movie just started, Starsk,” he said neutrally. On the screen, a group of people spoke Italian to each other in the drawing room of a castle decorated in purple silk and crystal. The subtitles told Hutch there was a dispute over someone’s last will and testament. The redheaded woman from before wasn't in the group, but she had seemed young for having already written a will…maybe uber-rich people were born with them.

“Oh, oh-oh-oh,” whispered Starsky, sounding so comically tragic that Hutch lost it, snorting. Starsky cursed and his thighs flexed. His side bumped into one of Hutch’s feet. Trying to twist back up to a seated position somehow. Even though Starsky’s efforts were futile, Hutch pressed on Starsky’s prostate hard to put an end to his struggling. Starsky panted, “ Unh—unfair , Hutchinson.”

Hutch wanted to look down at Starsky and see him bathed in purple light from the screen, but resisted. He meant to watch this film, damnit. Even if Starsky was more entertaining. Having Hutch’s divided attention could be Starsky’s punishment for dividing it in the first place. Starsky’s body was loose enough now for three fingers. Hutch shifted to give them to him and realized his own dick was straining against his fly unpleasantly. He unzipped to give himself some room, sighing. Starsky moaned when Hutch stretched him on his middle three digits, and then the moan turned into a strangled cry. Hutch looked down just in time to see another gush of white from Starsky’s angry-red cock. A commercial came on, so Hutch indulged himself with a longer look at his beautiful partner. He pushed on Starsky’s prostate with the pads of his fingers, prompting a third spurt of semen, and then looked at Starsky’s face. Tears were sliding from the corners of Starsky’s eyes back into his curly hair, and his face had a terrifically shell-shocked expression. He was breathing so fast he might hyperventilate. His cock was softening now. Hutch turned the vibrator off and Starsky made a noise suspiciously close to a relieved sob.

“Hutch, that was—”

“Oh, baby, it’s not over.”

“What?”

“We’ve got a good forty-five minutes of this film left. We’re not going to get you to the summit this way anymore, but don’t you worry. I know just the thing.” Hutch withdrew his fingers and wiped them off on Starsky’s thigh, and then re-belted the magic wand so that it’s head pressed insistently into Starsky’s taint, just below his testicles. When he switched it back on, Starsky jolted like he’d stuck his fingers in a light socket. Hutch grabbed another helping of Crisco and set to work warming it into Starsky’s flesh, circling a finger inside his hole.

Starsky made a choking noise and Hutch looked down at his face to ensure he hadn’t twisted himself into an alarming shape. Starsky’s eyes were screwed shut and his jaw was clenched. Hutch slid his three fingers back inside Starsky and relocated his prostate, torturing it anew at the same slow pace as before, and then said, “Look at me, Starsk.” Starsky cracked his eyes open. Hutch smiled down at him. “Relax your face.”

“Screw you,” Starsky bit back at him, but he did open his eyes and soften the set of his mouth, taking in a slow, hitching breath.

“Now is that any way to talk to the man who’s about to give you the most consecutive orgasms of your life?” Hutch worked his fingers in and out, thrusting them into Starsky’s prostate in quick, sharp jabs. Starsky’s body shook and he moaned low in his throat.

Hutch took another drink of his beer. It was warming up so he downed the rest at once and then turned his attention back to the screen. One of the men who had been conversing with the others in the drawing room now tiptoed through a blue graveyard at night, reading the inscription on a tomb with an expression of acute horror. The name flashed on the screen meant nothing to Hutch. The man heaved at the door to the tomb and when it finally budged the open coffin at the center of the room was empty. Hutch looked back down at Starsky. He was breathing in quick, shallow gasps again, sweat beaded up on his face, two of his curls plastered to his forehead. Hutch used his left hand to hold the wand against Starsky’s skin and pressed up against his front wall at the same moment, squeezing his prostate from both sides. Starsky’s moan turned into a scream and Hutch watched with delight as a weak gush of white dripped from Starsky’s flaccid cock.

“Hutch,” Starsky croaked once the latest wave cresting over him broke. His eyes were unfocused, blinking up at Hutch all shiny, his dark eyelashes wet.

“Hey, darling,” Hutch cooed back at him. “Don’t make me gag you, now. You’ll get a black and white called up here, hollering like that.”

“Oh God, Hutch…please…no more. I’m gonna…I’m gonna die .”

“You aren’t going to die. You’re going to come.”

Starsky’s eyes widened, frenzied. “N-n—” Hutch alternated pressing the wand into Starsky’s taint and massaging his balls with his left hand, and fingered Starsky’s prostate furiously with his right. Starsky’s body made slick sounds clenching around Hutch’s fingers. His protests turned into helpless, gut-punch moans. “No-nnh-ohh, oh Hutch, Hutch! ” Starsky bit his lower lip so hard Hutch’s stomach jumped, certain he’d bite it bloody, and his abs clenched as Starsky’s penis dribbled just a little more fluid onto his stomach. It was the color and consistency of watered-down milk. Starsky’s tendons stood out in his thighs, and Hutch released his balls, drawn up tight under his flesh, to smooth a soothing palm over Starsky’s thigh muscle. Starsky groaned as his latest little death ebbed, and gasped for air like he’d just run a marathon. His face was very red. “Ohhh God,” he said again. His eyes were half-closed and he was making little ahs with every exhale, unable to keep quiet. Hutch’s eyes returned to the screen. Two of the same men from before stood together in a modern house unlike the castle drawing room, colored bottles on white shelves behind them. They were discussing the estate. Hutch thought the bearded fellow was up to no good, by the gleam in his eyes. Starsky recovered enough to form words. “Ah, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” Words but not complex sentences, Hutch amended with a smirk.

“You can.”

“I can’t, Hutch, I can’t—

“You haven’t got a choice, partner,” Hutch told him. Starsky groaned low in his throat and Hutch abandoned the movie again. Starsky was a much prettier sight. His mouth was open, pretty eyes wide in shock. Hutch squeezed his thigh and then stuck that hand down, offering it. Starsky grabbed it like a lifeline, his grip so hard it hurt. Hutch upped the tempo of his right hand, alternating circles and pressure on that wonderful little bundle of nerves inside Starsky as the magic wand tormented it from the outside. “I’ve got you, baby. Okay? I’ve got you.”

“Okay,” Starsky whispered. “Okay, oh…. oh…fuck, oh babe .” Starsky made a sound low in his throat like Hutch was stabbing him rather than finger-fucking him, and his spent cock twitched. Only a few drops of milky fluid dribbled out, joining the mess on Starsky’s stomach. Then, “Hutch….”

“Mm,” Hutch acknowledged. His right wrist hurt. Gingerly he withdrew his fingers and was considering whether to switch hands when Starsky said again, more urgently:

“Hutch. Hutch , credits.”

“Huh?” Hutch glanced up at the TV. The credits had begun to roll, quickly drowned out by a commercial break. Hutch switched off the magic wand and unbuckled it from Starsky’s thigh, letting it and the belt fall onto the floor.

“Oh thank God,” said Starsky.

“You sound almost religious.” Hutch grunted hoisting Starsky up. “Hey, help me out here.”

“Help you? I can’t feel anything except my cock and it’s red-hot.” Starsky collapsed against Hutch’s chest, his whole body trembling. Hutch’s shirt stuck to the copious amount of release going tacky on Starsky’s chest. “I can’t feel my feet, Hutch. My fingers are cold. For a second there I thought I wouldn’t make it. I thought….” Starsky went on stammering half-coherently, but Hutch was suddenly, urgently aware of his own need. Hissing, he pulled his underwear down and hugged Starsky flush against him, thrusting his cock up between their bodies. Starsky’s spunk provided ample lubricant, even if it was going cold. Once, twice, three times. “Thought you were gonna kill me with your fingers,” Starsky babbled, and Hutch came on the fourth thrust, shuddering. Climax hit like a bullet. Hutch hadn’t even been aware of how bad he needed it, so focused on Starsky. When he caught his breath, Hutch stroked the back of Starsky’s head, lovingly running his fingers through Starsky’s sweat-damp curls and holding Starsky’s face against his shoulder. “You did so good, babe,” Hutch murmured in Starsky’s ear.

“How many was that?”

“I don’t know.”

Starsky’s voice grew suddenly livid. He pulled back to look Hutch square in the face. “All that and you didn’t even count? You don’t know your record!”

Hutch laughed, a belly-laugh that made Starsky crack a smile despite his evident annoyance. Hutch kissed his cheek, still giggling. “Let’s go get cleaned up. We can order in.” Hutch dangled the offer like a prize, but truth be told he didn’t feel much like cooking. Post-orgasm drowsiness had settled over him like a warm blanket. Starsky turned his face to give Hutch a real kiss and Hutch slipped him his tongue. When they broke apart Hutch chuckled again. “My record . Like trivia. You’re something else, partner.”

“If you don’t know it,” said Starsky pragmatically, “how do you expect to beat it?”