Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bound to the Law V: Collar and Cuffs Required
By
Dawnwind

Starsky slammed the door behind him, draping his leather jacket over the back of a ladder backed chair in the tiny foyer. God, what a day. Since Hutch had driven his own car to and from the city, to get some errands done after work, Starsky hadn't had to make any pretense that he was in a good mood on the way home, which was a relief. Sometimes the hour drive to their new place was a great way to unwind, and while today the long ride had bled away some of his incipient grouchiness, he was still testy, with a list toward ornery. Starsky had let out the clutch and roared up the back roads, singing along with the Rolling Stones at the top of his lungs. Even so, he still felt itchy and disjointed, like he was a fictional character who'd ended up in the wrong novel.

Wondering where Hutch was, since his car was in its usual place in the garage, Starsky wandered into the dining room and froze. The table was arranged with a assortment of objects displayed in a vaguely artistic way, but none of them had anything whatsoever to do with dinner.

"No!" The words ripped out of him, the first rumbles of a volcanic eruption. Whipping around, Starsky saw Hutch standing in the hall, arms crossed, looking as formidable as Starsky had ever seen him.

"No," Starsky repeated, standing his ground. "Not tonight, Hutch. No."

"You don't make the rules around here," Hutch said sternly. "I do."

He'd given Hutch that right, that much was true, even though technically, he owned the place. "No," he agreed.

"So, you know the house rules," Hutch said taking a step closer. "Naked at all times…"

"No," Starsky retorted, the rest of the rules sing-songing in his brain; 'No speaking unless spoken to. Head down, and on his knees or back at all times.' It wasn't that he didn't want to submit, he did--just not today. "I'm not ready. You didn't give me any warning."

"That was never part of the bargain. I gave you the agreed upon signal. We're doing it--this weekend. Now take off your clothes."

Starsky sucked in a breath. Despite his mental resolve, his traitorous cock responded to Hutch's tough talk with a definite swelling. His jeans were suddenly far too tight, which only fueled his simmering rage. "No."

It had been over a month--closer to six weeks since they'd used those bits of leather and metal now lying on the table where supper should have been. After discovering a mutual enjoyment of the darker side of sex; sexual domination and submission, bondage, and even pain play, they'd gone at it with exhausting enthusiasm.

Nearly every other weekend from January through early March had been filled with new games, new ways to 'play,' and new excitements. Then, with the renovation of their recently purchased house, bought to be their hideaway for BDSM, things had taken a hiatus. Rendezvous were planned only to have various obstacles come up. Reservations were made and then cancelled, assignations postponed time and time again. So now Hutch had taken matters into his own hands, which was certainly only right, given his position in the hierarchy, and had sprung an unannounced session. Unexpected, and overly sudden.

Starsky backed up, jostling the table behind him. As Hutch took one step forward Starsky noticed he had on black leather pants that clung to his legs, making him look like Michelangelo's statue of David upholstered in kidskin.

"Starsky!" Hutch was close enough to reach down, his long arm skimming the hair on Starsky's arm, to pick up the small brown collar on the table. When his fingers closed around it Starsky took his chance, ducking away from his master and heading for the front door.

Moving with the speed that had earned him medals on the Duluth track team, Hutch blocked the maneuver, slamming Starsky against the wall. Stiff armed, Hutch held him there long enough to get the collar around his neck just above the thick chain he already wore. The buckles were too difficult to do up one handed, and Hutch had to loosen his hold.

Something snapping inside, and Starsky growled in outrage. Intentionally launching himself down the hall, he gasped in shock when Hutch grabbed his arm, almost jerking him off his feet. With a savage smile, Starsky knew in that instant that this was how he wanted it to be; rough and brutal.

Just as Starsky was about to escape, Hutch hooked a foot around his ankle, tripping him. He fell full force to the carpeted floor, the breath knocked out of him. Hutch scrabbled onto his back, grabbed a handful of curly hair, and snapped Starsky's head back just enough so that when he let go, Starsky banged his forehead on the baseboard. Starsky gasped, starbursts exploding in his retinas.

Hutch worked quickly, using the lull to buckle the collar firmly into place. "Now, is there anything you want to say to me?" he asked, panting, his full weight on Starsky's butt, hands pressing him into the nap of the carpet. "Any particular word? If not, I'm taking these clothes off you whether you like it or not."

Starsky knew Hutch was giving him an out, a chance to use his safeword and stop the action cold. Except, as much as he'd protested the sight of the collar and cuffs, now he wanted their stiff embrace holding him in, Hutch's will forced upon him. It had a weirdly cleansing effect that he hadn't experienced in such a long time. "No," he grunted, struggling against Hutch's heaviness.

"No, what?"

"No, master, there is nothing I want to say," Starsky answered sullenly, biding his time for his next escape attempt.

But once again, Hutch thwarted him. Pushing up on his knees just long enough to slide his hand under Starsky's body, Hutch worked the buckle on his belt free and slipped it out of the belt loops. Then jerking Starsky's hands behind him, Hutch wound the thick belt around them, binding the two wrists together. Starsky had expected the usual leather cuffs, which would have taken longer to fasten, giving him more time to make a run for it, but this was diabolical, using his own clothing against him. Now with his hands in this position he had no leverage to get off the floor.

Hutch took off each shoe and sock, then using something that felt cold against the back of Starsky's exposed ankle, he began working his way up the pant leg with a snipping sound.

"Hutch!" Starsky cried out, realizing that Hutch was actually cutting the jeans off of him. He kicked out with the leg Hutch wasn't holding onto. "No!"

"Careful or you'll cut yourself," Hutch said blandly, continuing his mission. "I gave you ample opportunity to get undressed, but you refused. You've already earned about three demerits here. You want to go for a full half dozen right off the bat? Or are you going to cooperate?"

Cooperate wasn't in Starsky's vocabulary at that particular moment, but he didn't move, feeling the soft cotton of his jeans slip away with Hutch's handiwork. His old blue t-shirt went the same way as the pants, and last of all, his boxers were sliced in two.

"I like this sight so much better," Hutch said sounding satisfied. He rubbed his hands over Starsky's bare buttocks, kneading and pinching, then finally licking--just a little, all around the perimeter of his anus. "I'm going to pull you up to kneeling, and then maybe we can start this session off right."

Starsky allowed himself to be set up on his knees, what was left of his clothes scattered around them in drifts. He pulled in a deep breath, no longer encumbered by Hutch's weight on his back, and shifted his shoulders, the pull of his bound arms already a small, but welcome ache.

"Whose collar do you wear?" Hutch asked solemnly, removing the everyday locked chain with a tiny key, and leaving only the leather slave collar.

"Yours."

"Who do you belong to?"

"You, my whole body and soul," Starsky vowed, the words still powerful and seductive every time he said them.

"And what is your safeword?"

Glancing up swiftly at Hutch, Starsky wasn't sure he even wanted to put voice to that special word. He didn't want this to have an ending, all of a sudden needing Hutch's dictatorship to last until--at least the next time they had to go back to work. And yet, there was still a big part of him that wanted to fight and kick and protest every second of his captivity. He wanted both. "Torino," he whispered, barely audibly.

"Your white ass looks so pretty I want to decorate it before we start to play," Hutch said, his hand playing with Starsky's hair. "Redemption position, now."

"N--," Starsky began, awkwardly getting to his feet, and found himself once again slammed into the wall, Hutch's arm across his neck, forcing his chin up so they were eye to eye.

"Starsky, I'm not reading your signals at all tonight--one minute you're fighting me, and the next you want it. You didn't give any safe word, and you agreed to this, in writing," Hutch said angrily.

Starsky squirmed under that intense gaze, staring back defiantly. Yes, he'd finally signed a paper giving Hutch master's rights over him. It hadn't been a formal long term contract such as other couples who lived their everyday lives as master and slave. It spelled out certain specifics that pertained to Starsky's and Hutch's lives, rules they had discussed early in their relationship, and others they'd thought up with the help of their lawyer, Lisa, also a slave in her private life. One was that while Starsky had full autonomy at work as a cop, as well as any time they were not engaged in a session; that once Hutch initiated a "weekend" by putting the collar and cuffs on the dining room table, they were "on the clock" until he said so. Sessions never lasted more than two days, and since Starsky had stipulated that he needed recovery time after strokes or bruising intercourse, there was usually a free day before he was due back on the force.

"I don't want to be swatted." Starsky tried to rock forward with his knees to displace Hutch's stance.

"Too bad, that's not your call," Hutch laughed. "You haven't worn my mark in weeks. It's been way too long. Can I trust you to take it, or do you want to be tied up?"

"I need…I need to fight…" Starsky ground out, anger and hatred of the last week welling up. There'd been a rash of murdered prostitutes, each more savagely assaulted than the last. One of the women had been a girl Starsky and Hutch used as an informant from time to time, who simply called herself Doll. Starsky had wept at the sight of Doll's mutilated body, ducking into the red and white Torino on the pretense of getting some evidence bags. But Hutch had known better, and stood sentinel, warding off other questioning police with a keep-your-distance frown.

"That’s okay--that I understand," Hutch said, kissing him, his arm still heavy on Starsky's neck, reinforcing the stricture of the collar. "Into the session chamber, stand at the end of the bed." He stepped back, powerful and in control.

Taking a shaky breath, Starsky did his master's bidding, not risking an extra demerit so soon. The urge to argue, challenge and fight still bubbled inside him. He never liked the pain that came from a crop but he loved the knowledge that he wore Hutch's mark. Walking around town, it was like a special secret he kept covered by his jeans. Except, wearing pants the first day could be a true pain in the butt. He relished a time when Hutch might put a more permanent mark on his body, a tattoo or even--and this idea made him inwardly cringe with fear even while it excited him sexually--a brand. They'd casually discussed both in the past but the subject hadn't come up lately.

Positioning himself as commanded, Starsky held himself firm, not looking over his shoulder to see what Hutch was doing. With his hands secured behind his back he couldn't do anything but wait. He was now nothing more than a slave, a being created to serve his master. The sweet relaxation of a submissive headspace couldn't take hold with the rage still broiling inside him, but Starsky had hopes that Hutch's marks would banish the anger for the weekend, at least.

Hutch trailed a hand down his shoulder to one wrist, then released his hands, only to retie them with thick velvet rope to each bedpost. Because his hands were tied down low, Starsky had to bend forward, pushing his butt out to be a target for the nasty crop. Staring at the dark red ropes that held his wrists fast, Starsky had to resist the impulse to jerk and test his bonds. The slightly odd thing that vaguely amused him was that the ropes matched the red of the carpet perfectly. At least the only "clothing" he wore didn't clash with the furnishings.

"Three strokes right over the butt, sort of like a bull's eye," Hutch said rather conversationally.

Starsky could hear the swish of the brutal little crop through the air as Hutch tested it. He had purchased the crop at the Leather Jungle, following Hutch's directions. It had looked almost innocuous hanging on the wall, but even a small testing flick on his palm stung like the dickens. The real power of the slender, flexible length of leather, however, came from Hutch's arm. And Hutch had learned from a master in the art of yielding a crop, and even a strap, cane, and tawse. Caress still schooled Hutch in the dark mysteries of BDSM, but Starsky knew they'd branched out into other subjects such as Japanese knot tying, which so far, Hutch hadn't attempted on his slave.

"After, I plan to take you right up the ass, while the marks are new and hot," Hutch purred. "Did you prepare yourself this morning?"

"No," Starsky blurted shortly, ire rising in his gorge. Why would he have? He'd gone to work never expecting an inquisition on par with the Spanish Armada's attack on England.

"Then that will have to be done." Hutch kissed him between the jutting scapula and Starsky nearly capitulated right there.

He would have begged his master to kiss him again and again but the crop descended on his unprotected butt, wrenching a scream out of him that could have been heard in the yard if the room hadn't been soundproofed.

"No!" Starsky bellowed, this time fighting the ropes that held him. His feet weren't fettered and he kicked out, but Hutch had much more maneuvering room. He seemed to be able to avoid both flailing feet while delivering lightening fast zaps of fire across Starsky's buttocks.

By the third one, Starsky had slipped down so that he was hanging from his hands, feet now too far from the bed to support him well. He panted, breath coming out in ragged puffs, but ever so slowly the residual anger slipped away, overpowered by the raging fire that was consuming his backside.

"Finished?" Hutch asked kindly, supporting him until Starsky could get his feet back under him so that he once again bent at the waist with his freshly decorated bottom presented for viewing. "Get it out of your system?"

"Those girls…" Starsky gasped, head hanging down from his shoulders because it was too heavy to pick up. "I keep seein' them…and the floater we found on the beach the week before, and the…"

"Sssh," Hutch whispered, running gentle fingers down his prominent vertebrae. "I know, baby, we both needed this. It's been too long overdue."

"How'd you know?" Starsky asked in wonderment, the searing pain of the marks soaking in, helping him to restore his psyche in a way that might be unorthodox but worked for him.

"Starsk, I see them, too, when all I want to see is you." Hutch kissed him again, this time directly over one of the welts, the kiss burning almost as hotly.

Starsky shuddered, desire releasing a tidal wave of adrenaline that left him shaking violently.

"This is the only way I knew to free us both," Hutch said quietly.

"Yes," Starsky whispered, drawing out the 's' like a sigh.

"No more talk about anything that happens outside this room. You can't leave the confines of the session chamber for twenty-four hours, at least."

"Not even the kitchen?"

"This is your--cell, shall we call it? You're imprisoned here with only thoughts of love, sex, and me."

"Those usually do go together," Starsky quipped impishly. "I get to eat, don't I?"

"Of course, would I let you starve?"

Starsky risked a quick glance behind him, the muscles in his lower back beginning to protest his awkward pose. Hutch was rummaging around in the bathroom, his back to the door. Starsky could admire the shining hair and sculpted physique for only a moment though, before he ducked around to avoid getting caught peeking. "You used to fast for a coupla days at a time."

"Used to being the operative words," Hutch agreed, coming back into the room.

Looking between his own widely spaced bare feet Starsky could spy Hutch's sleek black leather pants and shining leather boots. Even that small of a glimpse sent a shiver of excitement through him.

"I will feed you, don't worry about that."

Starsky did think about it, though. His belly was already grumbling, and while Hutch was no longer the granola and desiccated liver fanatic he had once been, his food choices were not always what Starsky craved.

"Since it's been a long time, a quick clean up before the main event," Hutch said as he introduced a slender rubber hose into Starsky's anus.

Squirming with discomfort, Starsky squeezed his eyes shut, trying to accept the necessary treatment with equanimity. He still didn't have to like it, and he was now glad he hadn't eaten recently. Luckily, it was over quickly, and Hutch's finger replaced the rubber nozzle, smoothing cool gel inside Starsky's inner passageways. This felt much nicer, and he wiggled impatiently, trying to force Hutch's fingers deeper inside to stimulate his prostate.

"Don't move, and don't come," Hutch warned, smacking him softly on the butt.

The sting from the welts had dissipated somewhat but any contact renewed the pain with vigor. Starsky hitched a breath, awed by the agony such a small piece of leather could bring. He waited, hoping for that big cock to invade his space and fill him up with Hutch's love.

When it came he grunted, bracing himself against the foot of the bed because Hutch slid in with one fast, smooth movement. All of Starsky's rectal muscles spasmed, straining to stretch far enough to take the large intruder. For a moment, pain wracked his belly but it passed swiftly, leaving behind a wonderful sensation of fullness and pressure. Hutch was already thrusting, crying out with inarticulate passion, his balls slapping lightly against Starsky's abraded skin.

Starsky loved serving him so, being used and abused like this to satisfy Hutch. Because what satisfied Hutch also satisfied him. It was like giving a gift of his body, and yet getting an even better one in return. For all the pain and bondage Hutch could dish out, he was also a compassionate and loving man who cherished his lover and slave completely. Starsky had never had a relationship that so perfectly fulfilled his every need. He and Hutch were a pair, not whole without the other. They'd meshed together prior to the discovery of their mutual kinks. Friends and partners first, they'd spent years learning every nuance of the other's personality before becoming lovers, but the BDSM was the icing on the cake. Hutch craved the power and control he got from being dominant, and Starsky had discovered a never-before-acknowledged submissive side. He'd probably never be able to kneel down for any other master, but for Hutch he would give his very soul.

As Hutch climaxed inside him, slamming his whole cock down his slave's chasm as if trying to make it come out of his mouth, Starsky could feel his own orgasm building. But he wasn't allowed to come--so he quenched the swelling needs, banking his desire until the time was right. Hutch yelled in triumph at the end, wrapping his big body around Starsky.

This was heaven, Hutch's penis still wedged inside him, but was also hard to support both their weights against the footboard. His arms were startling to buckle when Hutch stood, again kissing him on the back. Starsky longed to be able to kiss those strong lips in return, taste the sweet nectar of Hutch's tongue as it slipped into his mouth, coupling with his own tongue, but that was apparently to be denied him.

"We'll eat in a few hours," Hutch said, peppering his shoulders and neck with kisses. Starsky arched like a cat, savoring the soothing smacks, a torture of a whole different kind. "Now, an hour of sensory deprivation, to help you find your submission. I know you're still chafing the collar, so full bondage, complete immobility."

The words might be harsh but Starsky drank them in like fine wine. They'd only done this once previously but he had treasured every last second, having plunged into a dreamlike state that could only be described as nirvana. Even so, the mere thought of being utterly bound was scary. What if something happened to Hutch, leaving Starsky unable to move or go for help?

"Powerless," Starsky said, and for all his fears, he wanted that total dissociation from the world. Wanted to float effortlessly on a cloud, freed from the anguish and horror of the last week.

Suddenly blackness descended, covering his eyes and nose. Starsky jerked with fright but Hutch's hand stilled his frantic struggles.

"It's just a mask--you've worn it before," Hutch assured, adjusting the leather helmet until the mouth opening was over Starsky's mouth and the nose holes in place for him to take in sweet lungfuls of air. "No gag this time, but the blindfold is already snapped on, that's why you can't see."

Starsky nodded, becoming more accustomed to the tight confines of the mask. He could smell the heady scent of leather and musky sweat as Hutch tightened the laces in the back and tied them together. Already Starsky felt his detective self dropping away, replaced by the slave who answered only to Hutch.

"You can only speak to reply to my questions," Hutch intoned, finally freeing him from the velvet cords. "Do you understand?"

"Y-yes," Starsky stood absolutely still, feeling Hutch's presence behind him, but unable to see anything at all.

"Can you breathe?"

"Yes."

"Now I have something new that I've been wanting to try, but it was never the right time," Hutch said, kissing him full on the mouth.

Starsky moaned, wanting more, wanting to be held and comforted but Hutch moved away, picking something up, from the sound of it.

"They're like tight leather gauntlets that go all the way up to the shoulder and then get laced together in the back. Hold out your arm."

Starsky felt the gloves encasing his right arm and then the left. It took some effort on Hutch's part to tug the form-fitting kidskin up all the way, and smooth it out so that nothing bunched or pinched. Starsky twisted his arms, liking the firm grip of the leather on his skin. There were no finger slots, just a sort of mitten at the end, which Hutch curved under and locked to a 'D' ring on the wrist, so that Starsky's hands were useless to him. Then Hutch wound a thin harness around his shoulders, not unlike Starsky's shoulder holster strap, and hooked it to each gauntlet to prevent them from slipping down.

The final step was the most arduous. Hutch pulled Starsky's arms back until his elbows almost touched, which caused him to cry out in protest. Hutch shushed him gently, kissing each shoulder solicitously. The lacing of the two leather bound arms seemed to take forever, and Starsky found it more difficult to take an easy breath in this position. His chest ached and he couldn't bend or move his arms whatsoever.

After helping him to lie down on the bed, Hutch dressed him in snug black leather chaps. These had a zipper from the crotch down to the ankle, but left the cock, balls and buttocks exposed. Starsky could just imagine his newly striped ass framed by the leather, which he assumed was black. He was jolted out of the little day dream when Hutch fondled his genitals, forcing a restricting tube around each one. Starsky panted, knowing that in the end, he'd be happy with the results, but the getting there was more arduous than he'd expected.

"Only a few more things, little one," Hutch kissed the end of his throbbing cock, licking the head just once.

Starsky groaned with pleasure, wanting more, wanting his master's mouth on him every second. But having Hutch's large, warm hands roaming over his body wasn't bad at all. With the blindfold on, Starsky couldn't quite anticipate where those hands might be next, so it was like a risqué game of blindman's bluff.

"I don't think this one will be a surprise," Hutch poked a finger gently into Starsky's anus and then introduced a butt plug.

"No," Starsky had to chuckle. He'd started to believe that Hutch had some sort of fetish about sticking those things up inside him. They must own six or more by now, and he was fully aware that Hutch very much enjoyed going over to Leather Jungle to find more sex toys, not just the ubiquitous plugs.

The little rubber stopper was anchored into place with a chain that Hutch attached to the front of the chaps and also the back. Starsky could feel the cool metal trailing lightly over overheated welts, and squirmed.

"Lie still," Hutch admonished, but without threat. "I'm going to buckle the legs of the chaps together so you can't move, and then I'll set the timer for one hour. Do you remember our signal for your submissive state?"

"A tap on the left arm," Starsky murmured, feeling his ankles being bound together until the bony protrusions knocked against each other. Hutch was strapping a belt of some kind around his knees, and then his upper legs so that he was suddenly a new species: a bondage leather merman, incapable of walking, or even bending any part of his body except his waist. It felt decidedly weird, and yet strangely sexy. He was as sleek and slippery as a seal, a giant phallic symbol wrapped for Hutch's pleasure.

Two short taps on his left arm, just above the scar left over from a knifing, signaled the beginning of his descent. Starsky had fluttery moths in his belly, but none of the panic he'd had the first time they'd tried sensory deprivation. He inhaled as deeply as possible, having become accustomed to the constraints caused by the arm binders, and exhaled, the heady scent of leather as much part of the experience as the immobility.

For a short time, he just concentrated on relaxing, losing all the unnecessary stressors that tied him up in emotional knots. Drifting on a stream of blissful release Starsky embraced his bondage. He was totally trapped, and yet improbably liberated.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hutch sat back in the leather sling that hung from the ceiling just below the sky light, watching his creation. He hadn't expected the preparations to be so taxing, he was sweaty and his back ached from the pulling and tugging needed to suit Starsky up. But the outcome was magnificent.

Starsky's skin gleamed in the soft light of the room, pale and glorious against the sensual black of the leather. Hutch longed to have his hands back on him, feeling the power and glory that was David Starsky. But this was Starsky's time--a time of contemplation and relaxation that he never seemed to achieve in any other way. While Hutch had long ago learned to replenish his soul and rejuvenate his spirit with quiet meditation, Starsky's restless nature hadn't afforded him that luxury. Years earlier, Hutch had dragged his partner to Yoga classes. Starsky was limber and graceful performing the intricate positions, and had flirted with several of their willowy, leotard wearing classmates, but he couldn't get the hang of meditation. Bondage was the only thing that had ever stilled him.

Letting his eyes rove over the recumbent figure, Hutch played idly with his cock. It was already beginning to swell with interest again, and he wondered how it would be to plunge himself into that mouth slit, to feel Starsky's tongue tantalize and seduce him. As much as the leather hid his partner's beloved features, there was no disguising that this was Starsky. The scars criss-crossing his chest that were testimonies to Starsky's survival proved that, and Hutch loved every last one. He'd never seen them as anything but beautiful because they had knit Starsky's wounds back together, and brought his best friend back to him.

Hutch put out a hand, letting it hover a few inches above that vulnerable chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, but he didn't dare touch Starsky and risk disturbing his composure. There was still thirty minutes left and Hutch had a few things to do. He could smell the delicious scent of roast beef, carrots, and potatoes he'd cobbled together into the crock pot just before Starsky had gotten home. A loaf of French bread and bottle of wine were waiting for the meal, and pots of creamy mint chocolate mousse cooled in the refrigerator for dessert.

This had truly been a horrendous week, capping off a dreadful month, and Hutch regretted that he hadn't thought of this solution sooner. But building inspections and last minutes changes to the house renovations had competed with overtime on the job, destroying any free time.

Well, now things were going to change. The house at 69 Robinson Lane was just the way he wanted it--plumbing and electrical systems finally up to code. All the windows had been replaced with double-paned glass, and every room had a few special embellishments for those times when their sessions spilled out of the chamber and into the rest of the house. The two bedrooms to the right of the room they currently occupied were supposed to be one for each of them, but they rarely, if ever, spent a night apart, and tended to mutually drift into Hutch's bed. He'd never questioned why.

Going over to the armoire that contained a growing assortment of sex toys and bondage equipment, Hutch found a wide variety of candles, some fat and some thin, and a box of wooden matches. He placed the candles all around the room, lighting each until the whole chamber glowed and flickered from the yellow flames. The timer went off just as he was lighting the last one, and Hutch smiled, turning off the overhead light so that Starsky wouldn't be blinded when his eyes were uncovered.

Gently tapping Starsky's upper arm, Hutch leaned in close. "Rise and shine, my prince."

"Already?" Starsky yawned, wiggling as much as he could.

"'S'been an hour, do you want longer?"

"Someday. I'm starved right now. Do I smell food?"

"Pot roast." Hutch kissed him on the mouth, hungry for more than just food. "I'm going to unwrap you."

"Just so you know, I gotta…" Starsky hesitated and wiggled his pelvic area. "Go."

"Bad?"

"Pretty much."

Grabbing up the emergency urinal, Hutch dealt with the problem before he went about freeing the rest of Starsky's lower half. He helped Starsky sit up on the edge of the bed and then began to unlace the leather helmet, easing it off his sweaty face.

"I can see!" Starsky crowed like some blind movie character regaining his sight. He blinked, squinting slightly, but looked around the transformed room in awe. "Looks like a paradise."

"It is when you're here," Hutch said, gently wiping his face with a wet cloth.
Starsky still wore the confining black arm binders, and Hutch ran the palms of his hands lightly over the sensual, warm leather, giving himself over to hedonistic gratification, gently biting Starsky on the shoulder just above the edge of the gauntlet. Starsky arched towards him with a wordless cry, giving his approval. Worrying the spot with his teeth Hutch slathered the skin with his tongue, savoring the sharp, salty taste of sweat. Starsky's sweat. But it made him hungry. And as much as he could have continued using his slave as a combination of foreplay and appetizer, dinner was ready.

"Stay right here." Hutch nuzzled into his pink ear. "I'll be back with food."

"Don't take too long, I'm starving!" Starsky proclaimed.

Left alone in the chamber, Starsky swiveled his shoulders to relieve some of the pressure from his tightly bound arms. He wasn't going to ask when Hutch might deem it right to remove the gauntlets, for now just accepting what had been done to him. Bondage was such a strange and wonderful experience and he sometimes wished he'd tried it years before. But then it probably wouldn't have been the same without Hutch, so what would have been the point? The one previous attempt had been with a girl who called him by some former boyfriend's name, just proving how important it was to wait for the right person. And Hutch was. Starsky couldn't even imagine himself without the big blond. Life without him was inconceivable.

Life without bondage was not, although it certainly added to the fun. Hutch and bondage were a powerful recipe for adventure, a blending of ingredients so potent that Starsky couldn't get enough. Hutch was an ever inventive Dom, never quite repeating any action from the previous session. Starsky was frequently caught off guard, as he had been tonight, with Hutch's surprises, and that's what he liked most about their sex play. Even with the pain associated with many of the positions he was pretzeled up into, Starsky wouldn't give it up without a fight. He squirmed a bit on his sore butt, feeling each individual welt, each one like fire welding him to Hutch.

Dinner was served on a small collapsible table, set for one. One plate, one set of silver and one wine glass, its burgundy colored contents gleaming in the warm candle flames. Starsky's stomach was gurgling loudly but he watched as patiently as possible when Hutch took an appreciative mouthful of pot roast and carrot, knowing that, as the slave, he'd have to wait his turn. Hutch would feed him, there was no doubt about that, the question only was how long would Hutch tease him with the sight and smell of the delicious food. Starsky's mouth was watering when Hutch guided a laden fork to his mouth and slipped it in.

"Mmmm," Starsky murmured happily, savoring every morsel. The juices from the meat and vegetables gave both a lucious flavor that only made him want more. He leaned forward, frustrated by his inability to reach for things.

"I really like those gloves," Hutch took a sip from the wine before giving one to Starsky, too. "Don't know why I didn't try them sooner."

"They're tight."

"And your point is?" Hutch snorted a laugh, offering him a bite of buttered bread.

"Don't have one."

"Well, maybe just a little one." Hutch pointed with the bread at Starsky's blossoming hard on. "Admit it, you like them. You like the tightness, the way the leather hugs your arms so intimately."

His voice had taken on an arousing, hypnotic tone that drove Starsky to the brink with lust. His cock was fully inflated now, pushed out in front so far he expected it to launch into the air like a rogue hot air balloon. But Hutch gave it no notice. He took a large piece of meat between his teeth, bending close to Starsky to insert it into his mouth.

When they both had finished chewing, Hutch said, "It's like having your cock pushed down the sweetest little hole ever, not cramped but not an inch of room to move, either. So snug, holding you in until you don't know where you end and the leather begins." He grasped Starsky's bound arms, pushing back ever so gently until the ligaments in his shoulders cracked, and Starsky groaned at the weird pain-pleasure sensation. Like a wickedly sexy massage. "Is it part of you or are you part of the glove?"

"H-hutch!" Starsky stuttered out, his heart slamming into a constricted ribcage, jolts of almost-pain shooting down his back. God, he wanted Hutch in the worst way. The pressure in his cock was threatening to blow sky high, which might not be a good thing but might not be bad, either.

Hutch unknotted the laces securing both arms, and worked them free of the grommets until Starsky's gloved arms hung laxly at his sides, the curled up mitten ends like two useless paws. Starsky wiggled gratefully, ticklish pins and needles pricking from shoulder to wrist. Hutch poured more wine, sharing the entire glass between them until Starsky could move a little more freely.

"Want any more?" Hutch smiled at him over the rim of the glass, running his tongue along the edge.

"Meat, please?"

"Gotta eat your veggies, too. Wanna grow up big and strong?"

"Already way too big," Starsky said through a mouthful of potatoes.

"Bet that's tight," Hutch observed, widening his eyes in mock surprise as if he hadn't noticed until then the boner standing between them.

"Yeah."

"Think we need to take it down a notch." Hutch circled his thumb and forefinger around the base of Starsky's immense phallus, pinching down just hard enough to deflate it somewhat. Starsky grunted, dissatisfied that he didn't get to come. He was even more dissatisfied when Hutch picked up what appeared to be a tiny piece of stretchy latex and squeezed it back around the reddened, turgid length. "You look so great in black, Starsk."

"Sadist," Starsky panted without malice, trying to get his arousal under control. This was going to be a sexually frustrating weekend if he had to go around with a raging woody the whole time. The latex compressed him like a tube of toothpaste that had been scrunched down in the middle, the head of his penis flaring out the bottom in a most astonishing way. He could feel the throbbing in his very bones.

Hutch added a second latex slip onto the balls, waggling the rounded sacs that hung out the bottom of the black tube with obvious enjoyment. The discomfort diminishing, Starsky liked it, too, jolts of electric desire flaring up his belly.

"Still hungry?" Hutch asked humorously.

"Got any dessert?"

"Something you've had before, but always asked for seconds." Hutch stood lazily, his long body elegant and strong, his cock poking out in front as if announcing him to the world.

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?" Starsky joked, eyeing the tasty length of Prime Hutchinson.

"Considerably," Hutch cupped Starsky's jaw in his two hands, kneading his cheeks with firm but supple strokes.

Starsky relaxed his jaw, knowing that what was going to come in was big and round. He made a needy sound deep in his throat, impatient for his mouthful. Hutch didn't wait long, he brought Starsky's head in close so that his penis was perfectly aligned with the moist opening.

It was nothing for Starsky to suck and envelope that slippery head, swooshing his tongue around the end like a Maytag washer on the spin cycle. He slowed down the movement after a minute, licking down the underside, and then letting go of his prize to lavish the rounded scrotum with love. Each ball was tenderly ministered to until Hutch was crooning his slave's name in a continuous refrain.

Starsky kept trying to get his arms up to hold on, forgetting that they barely bent, and couldn't grip, since he'd lost that biological advantage of opposable thumbs. He raised his leather bound limbs fruitlessly, finally just hooking them around Hutch's waist to keep him close. Going back to his happy task, bringing Hutch to the edge of climax, Starsky closed his eyes to all outward stimuli. He wanted to make it last as long as possible and have Hutch begging for release. Smiling just a little, he slurped the cock back into his mouth, then drew back to blow lightly over the wet end. Devouring the length again, he swallowed, creating a strong suction.

Hutch yelled, his grip tightening on the sides of Starsky's jaw. "Oh, sweet Jesus, Starsk, do that one again!"

Starsky did as requested, then tipped back, feeling Hutch swelling inside him as he let the cock slide towards the back of his throat. It was only a matter of time, now. Hutch was literally vibrating, his balls bouncing against Starsky's chin just before he blew, pumping out thick semen. Starsky gulped it down fast, almost choking because Hutch was jammed so far back, but Hutch quickly pulled halfway out, giving Starsky room to breathe and swallow. He nursed that phallus like a suckling baby, murmuring in satisfaction the entire time.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Listening to the far off crow of a rooster that Starsky knew to be more than mile away, he lingered halfway between asleep and awake. If that was old man Shelborne's bird, it had to be pretty early in the morning. Hutch must have opened a window before they went to sleep. Starsky grinned, burrowing in against Hutch's warm side. No need to get up--not only was it Saturday, but they weren't working. Then, there was the fact that he was in submission mode and couldn't get up out of bed without his master's say so, anyway. They'd had a very late night, starting with a long soak in the hot tub to clean up after the sex. Starsky had been greatly amused when Hutch got around the whole "can't leave the session chamber" rule by blindfolding him and leading him to the outdoor hot tub as if pretending it were in the adjoining bathroom, and then blindfolding him afterwards to lead him back to bed for a bowl of creamy chocolate mousse. The mousse had led to some drowsy lovemaking all over again and they hadn't dropped completely off until way after two. Thus, he'd only been unconscious for about four hours, and wasn't about to wake his slumbering master to ask for further instructions. So, the only option was to go back to sleep.

It was much later in the morning when Starsky woke again, this time because of competition between his full bladder and empty stomach. Each was sending out warning signals that could not be ignored. When he rolled over he realized he was alone in the bed and a tantalizing aroma was wafting from the kitchen. Coffee was the most easily identifiable, but other smells such as toast and bacon were woven into the breakfast tapestry. Starsky was about to hop off the bed and get his bathroom time when Hutch came back in balancing a large tray.

"Got coffee?" Starsky asked hopefully.

"Is that the way you should be asking?" Hutch sounded like a cross between an elderly uncle and the dominant he was supposed to be. "You know the rules. Why don't you take care of the case of squirms you've got there, and then start all over again."

"Good morning, Hutch," Starsky said softly, when he was finished. He walked back into the room and knelt at his lover's feet. Shyly kissing his master's calf in adoration, Starsky settled into presentation position with his hands placed on wide spread thighs, back straight, and eyes lowered.

"That's what I like to see once in a while, a demure slave who knows how to behave." Hutch chuckled, handing Starsky his own coffee cup. "I could get used to having him around more often, but that guy who lives here would have to move out, and that's not going to happen."

"Nope." Starsky rolled his eyes, taking that first heavenly sip of the morning. Hutch had made the good stuff, French vanilla bean coffee, that they'd picked up in a small gourmet shop a few weeks before.

"Hop on up, and eat these eggs before they get cold," Hutch invited.

They made swift work of the first meal of the day even though it was nearly 11 a.m. Starsky lounged bonelessly on the rumpled bed, ignoring the minor pain that was his backside because the rest of him was so blissfully happy with the current situation. He didn't have any responsibilities until Monday when they would arrive back at Metro for the swing shift. Hours and hours until then could be given over to his submission to Hutch without having to worry about murderers, rapists, or typing up arrest reports.

Hutch skimmed his broad palm up Starsky's bent leg, then down the other side, lazily traveling up the slope of his pelvis and onto the flat expanse of his belly. Starsky chuckled, the hand barely touching him, just ghosting over his hairy abdomen, which was tickly and arousing by halves.

"I wanna tie you up," Hutch said softly, insinuating his long body between Starsky's legs. He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes liquid blue, that questing hand still moving slowly up to Starsky's ribcage.

Braced by a mound of pillows behind him Starsky looked down at the top of Hutch's tousled blond head, admiring the pure maleness of his lover. Hutch was long, powerful, and strong. He could subdue a drugged felon in under a minute, but also seduce his slave with the gentle caress of one hand. Starsky would have done anything for him just then, just to prolong the magical journey of that lovely hand. Hutch languidly circled one nipple, inching his whole body forward until he was prostrate over Starsky's groin, squishing a certain very interested cock under his chest.

"Didn't you do that last night?" Starsky asked just a little breathlessly.

"This is very different--elegant, using the slave's body as art." Hutch kissed Starsky's navel, laying his head down on that furry belly.

"Where do we begin?"

"At the beginning, of course." Hutch gave his fleshy cushion one last kiss and rose up to his full height, padding barefoot across the room. He was wearing, as he often did on their weekends together, a blue silk robe with the belt hanging free, and a pair of black silk boxers. The sight of the sensual fabric sliding against his muscular thighs robbed Starsky of what little breath he had left, because his cock was still throbbing with desire from the full body contact.

Selecting a coil of the silky white rope from the armoire, Hutch carried it back to the bed. He made a small loop on one end like a tiny lasso. "Get comfortable with your back against the pillows and then bring your knees up so you can grasp your feet."

After Starsky arranged himself as directed, Hutch slid the loop up his right arm very close to the armpit. Leaving about a six inch span between the two upper arms Hutch captured the left arm similarly and began to weave an intricate web of knots and twists of rope. Cord soft as down, and strong as cable, swathed Starsky's torso, up and around the shoulders to link with the span separating the arms. That was then wrapped tightly around to create a thick bundle over the chest before a single strand continued on down the body and circled the waist. Extra rope was knotted onto the belt so that the two ends could branch out into a 'Y' to tie each leg at the knee in a similar fashion to the arms. Another thick column kept the knees spaced apart. When Hutch got to the ankles, the cords were wrapped twice around each and then parceled out to the big toe and Starsky's thumbs which conveniently rested atop of them. A figure eight of rope joined the 4 digits tightly and the ends were then knotted between the feet.

Starsky couldn't move an inch, but he was astounded by the beauty and artistry of the bondage. The bindings were tight, constricting him into the position Hutch had designated, but the ropes didn't burn against his skin like rougher hewn ones would have done. The white cord seemed to embrace him like some sort of erotic jewelry, a sharp contrast to his darkly haired body. Why was this so utterly sensual, so amazingly arousing when being tied up by some hood with a broken nose and a sawed-off shot gun was frightening and cruel?

Hutch, of course. Without him, this would be a coil of rope, and a wasted morning. With him, the smallest thing became a aphrodisiac, filled with promise and unimagined delights. "You really earned your merit badge in knots, Boy Scout."

"I was a Sea Scout, remember?"

"Still must have had to tie the rigging, huh?" Starsky tried an experimental twist, rotating his hips only slightly but the ropes held him firmly, even when Hutch had picked up the crop left over from the night before, and began stroking it feather-lightly over his bound form. "You musta had to read 'Billy Budd' in high school, huh?"

"Eighth grade--advanced placement English class." Hutch slid the leather shaft of the crop down the inside of Starsky's groin, just nudging between his thigh and a very stiff penis. "Loved that book--wanted Billy to get tied to the mast and…"

"Now there's an image I never thought of until now." Starsky took a strangled breath, both eyes glued to the slow progress the crop was making. The tiny pressure against his cock was heaven and agony at the same time. Hutch still hadn't said anything about letting him come, and the indications were strong that it wouldn't be any time soon. He ached deep in the core of his maleness, needing relief, but welcoming any attention focused on that particular region of his body. "Captain Vere boffing Billy."

"Not to mention Claggart."

"What about Long John Silver and Jim Hawkins?" Starsky suggested to keep his mind off the hope of that wonderful leather wand massaging his hard-on. Other, even more exciting images flooded in, Hutch dressed like a South Sea pirate, golden chest bared, knife in his teeth, and long black leather boots sculpting his legs half way up his thighs. And Starsky would be lashed to the rigging of the ship, clothes in tatters from the whipping, as Hutch unbuttoned black, skin-tight breeches to reveal a bulging red cock ready for action.

"Am I losing you?" Hutch smacked the crop lightly against the inside of Starsky's thigh. Just enough to wake him, not enough to leave a welt to match the ones on his ass.

Starsky jumped, as much as he could, which was more like a slight twitch. "Nope, just indulging in fantasies."

"You're my fantasy right now, slave," Hutch said, sliding the crop up and under the thick bundle of rope across Starsky's chest to tap each pert little nipple. "All tied up with no where to go. Mine alone, and I'll never share." He extricated the crop, tickling Starsky under the arms and chin until he was giggling helplessly. Hutch swooped in to grab a kiss from that laughing mouth, then pushed the crop in between Starsky's teeth like a tiny gag. "Hold on to it gently, I don't want teeth marks in the leather," Hutch said.
"I want to draw you."

Mouthing the thin rod as if it were the stem of a fragile flower, Starsky basked in the warmth of Hutch's eyes. He felt cosseted, admired, and adored as his master produced a sketch pad and began to carefully examine each part of him. Arresting criminals, Captain Dobey, and even his beloved red and white Gran Torino were the farthest things from his mind at that moment. Hutch filled his world, because as Hutch looked at him, he could look back at Hutch.

"Beautiful, Starsk, just beautiful," Hutch enthused, sketching swiftly. His pencil seemed to fly across the paper, shading one area and then darkening the lines in another.

Starsky was interested to see the finished product. Would he look ridiculous--a grown man trussed up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, or would the drawing reveal his inner love of this bizarre form of relaxation? The taste of the leather on his tongue was salty and slightly bitter but he never asked to spit it out, even though he could have done so easily. The crop just rested in his mouth, it wasn't buckled in, but his master had decried its placement, and that's where it would stay until moved. Starsky swallowed carefully, his muscles and joints beginning to ache fiercely. He zoned out watching the movement of Hutch's arm, hearing the whisper of the silk gliding over golden skin, and the scratch of the pencil along the paper.

"How are you doing, lover?" Hutch asked, setting the art pad face down on a low table. "Ready to be let loose?" He plucked the crop out to let Starsky speak.

"My shoulders are really tight, but I kinda like this. You let Caress tie you up?"

"Yes, so I could internalize the feeling of being bound," Hutch agreed, shaking his head with a wry smile. "I'm still not sure what makes you like it so much, but I'm glad you do." He let the rope fall away to coil messily on the floor as he worked out the knots and twists.

Pretty soon Starsky could move his legs and then wiggle his upper body. When the last loop was removed, Hutch curved his arms around Starsky and pulled him close, whispering loving praise with every kiss.

By late afternoon Starsky was beginning to feel too confined. They'd played joyful little lover's games on the bed, employing a few sex toys, but mostly their own imagination, and Hutch still made him forestall his orgasm. Instead, he was allowed to do what he wanted, within limits, to his master. No tying up or marking, but Starsky covered his smooth body with kisses, explored the inner reaches of Hutch's puckered opening with his fingers, but not his cock, and then used edible finger paint to write sexy words across his chest.

"Stud-muffin?" Hutch laughed, reading upside down. "Pirate King? I kinda like that one."

"All those knots--my fantasy was you were Captain Vere," Starsky admitted, sliding the forefinger covered with cherry red paint into Hutch's mouth.

"Mmmm," Hutch hummed in appreciation. Starsky extracted the digit with an audible pop to scoop up more of the minty green paint.

"Put some on your dick," Hutch directed. "Long stripes like a barber pole."

"Most barber poles are red and white."

"I always liked green better." He raised a superior eyebrow, smirking. "Red and white's way over done."

"You'd better watch what you say about my car," Starsky warned with mock severity. He drew long green lines down his penis, the cold of the paint almost shocking to his overly needy member. In truth, his manhood felt hot and thick, his pulse drumming steadily inside with urgent obsession. He needed relief, and craved the touch of his dominant blond.

"Watch how you talk to your master," Hutch snapped more sternly. "Come here, let me have a taste of that candy cane."

"Oh, I see your game now." Starsky grinned. So he was going to get an orgasm after all, it was just a matter of patience. He shivered with delight as Hutch bent down to take his cock in his mouth. It slid in as smooth as butter, Hutch engulfing him in warm approval, showing his love with every wet caress. Starsky tried to prolong the experience because this was rapture and sublime satisfaction. He almost wanted to belt out the golden oldie used in the catsup ad "Anticipation, it's making me wait…" but he came with a glorious burst, his whole body arching forward in joy.

"I think you were ready," Hutch remarked wryly, wiping his mouth.

"More than you know." Starsky smiled, melting bonelessly in a puddle of contentment. "That makes up for a whole heck of a lot."

"Think you could get up for a steak at the Pomeroy Grill?"

"Steak doesn't usually give me a woody, but…"

"Smart Alec." Hutch tossed a pillow at him. "Let's get cleaned up--wear a suit and a tie, and leave the ankle cuffs on under your pants."

"Anything else, my master?" Starsky asked, loving the thought of wearing bondage gear under his best clothes. Very naughty.

"I can't ever pass up the chance to plug up a certain hole." Hutch ambled over to the armoire, the long sash of his blue robe trailing behind him. "And since you're going to be eating, a gag won't be much good, so this calls for a nice red backdoor buddy."

"You just can't wait to push something big and fat up inside me."

"Don't you ever forget that," Hutch said over his shoulder.

If the male anatomy had been up to it Starsky would have been erect a second time in minutes from the sexy tone and smoky look in Hutch's pale eyes.

Showering and changing took little time. They used the bathroom separately to avoid any prolonged naked body contact when they were hungry and ready for a change of scenery. In short order both were wearing nice suits, ties and dress shirts--Starsky's ensemble accessorized with the butt plug and ankle cuffs. Hutch buckled them back on personally, briefly running his hand up inside Starsky's pant leg with a smirky grin.

"Ready?"

"Ready to get undressed if you'd do that again," Starsky purred, the electric current from Hutch's touch igniting every one of his nerve endings. He could have lit a city just then.

"Get in the car, slave." Hutch cuffed him genially on the butt. Starsky shivered as little jolts of flashpain flared and then receded. He didn't know why but he loved the constant reminder of Hutch's mark on his backside.

"Yours or mine?"

"That red parade float is blocking the driveway, so I guess you'll have to drive."

The Pomeroy Grill was right in downtown Truro, situated on the western side of the old fashioned town square. A wide expanse of green lawn, rose gardens and elevated grandstand proclaimed the park a true throw back to simpler times. Pollyanna or Tom Sawyer could have celebrated the Fourth of July on the grass, munching on fried chicken, corn on the cob, and watermelon while watching homemade fireworks.

City boy Starsky had been entranced of the charm of the place, but heartened by the fact that there was a large urban mall only twenty minutes drive down the freeway. Hutch had been taken by the small town feel of the place, and the friendliness of the people. In the short time they'd lived there, they had already met several of the townsfolk, all of whom were pleased to have two big city cops living in their midst. Starsky suspected it made them feel safe, since Truro's constabulary consisted of a sheriff and two deputies, but he wondered what they'd all think if they ever discovered what he and Hutch did together in their little home?

Parking the car directly across the street from the Pomeroy, Starsky got out to watch Hutch. He loved seeing his big blond all dressed up like a model from a men's catalogue. Those long legs encased in gray trousers, hiding away the total package but presenting a figure so alluring, so incredibly handsome, Starsky had to swallow to keep from gasping out loud. When they'd first met, he hadn't noticed the fine silk of Hutch's flaxen hair, the perfect angle of his jaw and nose, but over time, as their love grew, so had his admiration of Hutch's physique. Hutch was nearly flawless--only the parallel lines over the noble nose that bracketed his eyebrows marred the impeccable features. Which only went to prove Hutch was human, and not some devine being. Starsky had always thought of himself as assembled from spare parts, his jaw too sharp, his legs a little short, his nose--well, enough said about that, but strangely Hutch seemed to like the total sum of his parts almost as much as he loved Hutch's.

Although they couldn't kiss on the public street without inviting unwelcomed censure, Starsky let his fingers brush Hutch's ass they walked across the street, the very tips of both their hands staying in contact until they reached the front door and had to step aside to let a departing couple by. The handsome elderly man nodded his thanks, placing a loving arm around his tiny, blue-haired wife before kissing her. Hutch watched them for a moment, turning back to smile at his partner with such loving adoration that Starsky felt warmed to the soles of his feet.

Straightaway, they were seated near the back, in a quiet table that afforded a measure of privacy so that they could indulge in a bit of hand holding under the fine linen tablecloth.

"What do you want?" Hutch asked casually, studying the menu.

"Hmmm." Starsky ran a finger down the column of grilled beef, poultry and seafood. Apparently Hutch wasn't going to order for him, as he did sometimes when they went out 'on the clock', so Starsky could have whatever he wished. "Steak?"

"Sounds good," Hutch agreed. "With a big baked potato and a salad."

"Red meat keeps the blood healthy…"

"You do need to keep up your strength." Hutch winked at him, then gave their order to the stoop-shouldered old waiter who had served them at this particular table every time they'd eaten at the Pomeroy since they'd moved into town. "Leroy, you're looking chipper today--you have a twinkle in your eye like you've made a conquest."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Hutchinson." Leroy's dark eyes did sparkle mischievously for such a spry old man. He waggled his head. "Mrs. Spencer, a lovely woman, her husband died a year or so ago. We've been sparking."

"Sparking!" Starsky crowed. "I take it things are going well?"

"Indeed." Leroy nodded. "This is the second go round for the both of us. We were the homecoming king and queen at Truro High in 1938."

"Royalty no less. You dog." Starsky grinned. "Good luck. Maybe give some pointers to this year's homecoming king, huh?"

"Could be, since my grandson goes to the school now!" He cackled, hurrying off to deliver their choices to the chef.

"This reminds me of Duluth," Hutch sighed, leaning back in his chair just far enough for Starsky to feel a certain foot curl around his pant leg. "The multiple generations, people knowing each other forever."

"Don't have to live in a small town to have that," Starsky countered, smiling when he felt Hutch's sock covered toes nuzzle the cuff enclosing his ankle. Hutch must have slipped off his shoe for a more intimate exploration. The effervescent tingles his foot was creating helped to ameliorate the ache from sitting on a wooden chair with a plug digging up inside him. "My grandma lived a coupla blocks away…"

"Over an Italian restaurant," Hutch finished.

"My aunt and uncle lived two houses over, and my dad met my mom in high school," Starsky pointed out, almost giggling as Hutch's toes nosed up higher on his calf. "And for a while we had the Polish relatives in our place, too. Seven people in a second floor walk up. It was a tight squeeze. I don't mind at all the two of us in our own place. Room to breathe."

"Mind telling me what was going through your head last night?"

Starsky snagged a hunk of French bread from a basket the busboy set on the table, unsettled by the sudden shift in the conversation. He was really glad Hutch hadn't removed his toes from the edge of his ankle cuff. The warm spot helped anchor him, and filter out the dirtiness just thinking about their job stirred up. "Hutch, it's one of those things--we've both had it happen. Whatever you want to call it. Burn out." He shrugged. "I just hate…what we see out there. Livin' here, I dunno, maybe I'm getting soft but the last month just grated my skin raw."

"When you saw the collar on the table, you said no, but you never gave me the word, so I kept going."

"Everything just happened too fast at first. My brain couldn't take the change so quickly--but it was what I needed, in the end." Starsky had raised his water glass to wash down a bite of bread and nearly choked when he heard his own inadvertent pun.

"It certainly was, Ollie," Hutch trilled, fiddling with his tie like Stan Laurel. "Should never be seen without a few parallel lines."

"I'm just glad we can get away from all that shit for a couple of days, at least." Starsky liberally buttered each side of his half eaten bread, with a swipe of butter in the curved place where his teeth had taken a bite.

"Which segues so perfectly into my next question I'd think you were psychic."

"Don't believe in 'em, remember, Oh amazing Callendro?"

"What if I say I could see cuffs, a paddle and gag in your future?" Hutch whispered evilly, his blue eyes merry.

"That was my past," Starsky countered, then bit down hard on his bread to stifle the giggles when Leroy came back with the food.

The waiter placed large plates of medium rare steak in front of each of them, then took his time grinding pepper over their meat, the salad and potatoes. Starsky accepted a large dollop of sour cream on his potato, but Hutch declined.

Then there was some discussion about the red wine ordered, with two glasses finally tasted and poured to everyone's satisfaction. Chewing and murmurs of appreciation for the food took up another short while until Starsky and Hutch had made their way through most of their dinner and were both satiated.

Starsky excused himself to use the restroom and Hutch slid his feet back into his now too tight shoes, sipping the Merlot with contentment. He breathed in the wine's fragrant bouquet, waiting for his partner to return. This had been the perfect ending to their session, and he was pleased at how everything had gone, especially since it had been his first time tying a slave up using the intricate Japanese system. He'd watched Caress drape Lisa with coils of rope, and had practiced many knots on a manikin, but the real thing had been so much richer--incredibly erotic.

Just thinking about looping the twine around Starsky's body, pulling the rope tight between his butt cheeks was enough to arouse Hutch's cock, and he wondered if there was any way to relieve that delicious ache any time soon. He hadn't even broached the subject he'd intended to discuss yet. Shifting forward in the suddenly overly hard wooden chair, he tried covertly to deflate his hard-on but the sight of Starsky swaggering across the restaurant did nothing to help. Starsky paused to examine the dessert cart, bending over slightly to hear what the pretty waitress guarding the selection had to say, his curved butt cheeks straining the fabric of his best slacks until Hutch was sure he could see the outline of the anal plug nestled there. Now he really didn't want any dessert, but knew Starsky would.

"Decide on the chocolate cake or the cheesecake?" Hutch raised his eyebrows when Starsky sat down.

"One for each of us?"

"I don't want any, just want to watch you eat it."

"Chocolate it is, then," Starsky declared.

Hutch waved over Leroy and requested a slice of cake and some coffee. After it was served, he watched Starsky lick fudgy icing off his fork for a few minutes. Finally he said, "So getting back to my original topic, what would you say to a long vacation?"

"Hello darling."

"There's kind of a catch, and before I go on, you have every right to your opinion on this. If you can't handle this place, the particular requirements, then we don't go. End of story."

"Okay. You have me more than intrigued." Starsky set down his fork, leaning forward. "Where and what?"

"An island off St. Thomas."

"Ah, the pleasure capital of the Caribbean, as Huggy-the-Travel-Agent once told me."

"And you didn't get to go the last time," Hutch said, referring to Starsky's aborted island vacation just after his near death from a poisonous compound. "This place is called St. Marquis."

"Mysterious-er and mysterious-er. Are you gonna tell me why I might not like it, or are we playing twenty questions?"

"It's owned by the Estate."

"Oh." Starsky gave the two letter word three syllables. "Then I most certainly like it."

"Since we've been to the Estate twice, we were invited to join the membership which means use of the facilities they own anywhere in the world."

"How many are there?"

"Six--so far, and I think they are planning one in Brazil. Besides here, and on St. Marquis, there's one in England…"

"Figures, they always liked their leather and spanking."

"New York, France, and Japan."

"And you have a hankering to visit every one, huh?" Starsky laughed, pressing his fork into the frosting once again and slowly removing every vestige of fudge from the tines with his tongue. Hutch caught his breath, watching intently.

"Possibly. The thing is, this place has rules that are strictly enforced--I am the master, you are the slave, the whole time, from the minute we arrive. No stepping out of character, ever. It's not allowed." Hutch stopped to let Starsky take this in, still studying his face. He'd been concerned about the stringent policies. Starsky made no bones about the fact that he enjoyed playing in the BDSM world, but had made it very clear he didn't want to live there always. So having to adhere to the law of the land, as it were, might make any vacation less than fun for him. Not for the world did Hutch want to ruin any part of their pleasure by making it a chore and a burden for his favorite slaveboy. This had to be fun for both of them or they didn't do it. On the other hand, a week away from Bay City, in a place where they didn't have to hide their relationship, or their interest in kink sounded fantastic. He waited for Starsky to consider all the options, outwardly calm and sipping coffee, but jittery on the inside.

"Sun, sand, warm ocean, and I can be naked with you whenever I want…" Starsky held up his left hand like a scales balancing an invisible load. The right hand wavered up and down in relation to the left. "Versus bein' here. Even on vacation we're still within range of Dobey's phone, and we still can't hold hands in public or do anything else." He looked between the two hands, the left one still higher. "How often do we really have to leave our room on this island?"

"Not often."

The left hand raised a bit higher, and Starsky nodded.

"But."

"Another provision?"

"Yes, and this one is probably the tie breaker." Hutch fished into his jacket pocket and pulled out the brochure he'd brought along. He opened it and read softly so that only Starsky could hear him. "Slaves do not have to be naked in the common areas. They are allowed to wear fetish wear or blue nylon shorts and a tank top, but all slaves must wear their master's permanent mark on their bodies for identification purposes, since they cannot carry drivers licenses or passports within the confines of the compound."

"Oh." Starsky inched closer so he could see the glossy pictures Hutch was holding low against the table even though several unoccupied tables separated them from the nearest diner. "A tattoo, you mean?"

"Or…" Hutch pointed to a montage of pictures of happy, nearly nude people in a variety of activities. One tiny blond haired girl in an almost invisible bikini had an obvious brand in the shape of a cursive K on her left thigh. Her owner, a tall, broad shouldered man had his arm curved proprietarily around her. Another photo showed a matronly woman looking as corporate as a bank vice president in a navy suit and spectator pumps holding the leashes of a matched pair of young men, both wearing only blue nylon jogging shorts and large tattoos of spider webs on their left pectorals. Each of their right nipples were pierced.

Hutch had examined all the pictures in the pamphlet more than once, and read every word, but it was still both exciting and scary. He'd have to maintain his dominance at all times, too, which was challenging. He and Starsky were so comfortable with each other; used to putting up their feet and just spending time together after a pain play session. Would the necessity of constantly playing their separate parts be too taxing to let them relax? Of course, as Starsky had just pointed out, whenever they were in their cabin they could play in the scene as little or as much as they wanted to. Surely there were no bondage police who patrolled the cabin's private beaches to ensure that slaves were always fettered and locked?

Starsky picked up the brochure, intently going over the text and pictures. Hutch, who could accurately read his partner's every thought when they were under fire and could only communicate with glances and body language, could no more gauge Starsky's expression now than if he were a total stranger. He wanted to believe that Starsky's silence showed an interest, and even tacit agreement, but he wasn't positive of that. So, he took another swallow of coffee, which had grown too cold. It was bitter in his throat as he considered why this vacation meant so much to him.

Yes, it would be a stretch for both of them, mentally and physically, but from the moment Hutch had received the manila envelope marked with an elegant E in the special post box he reserved for scene mail, he'd felt a real urge to go. To try new things, to experiment. Starsky always teasingly accused him of buying every new sex toy on the market, and never sticking to one type of play after they'd tried it a few times. But Hutch had always been a seeker--he'd been into fasting, dabbled in every sort of new age meditation, looked for his inner chakra, and even read up on EST and Scientology--not that he found either of them appealing, and hadn't attended meetings. He just liked the search for the next--whatever. BDSM had come in and out of his life twice. First with his ex-wife Vanessa, and now with Starsky, which proved that it fit Hutch somehow. Nothing else had ever really stuck like this had. Oh, he still tried to keep a healthy diet, and cleanse his inner being regularly but one high colonic had been enough, and fasting just made him light headed as he got older. Those things came and went.

Anything that happened with Starsky at his side, that was for real. If Starsky agreed to this trip to St. Marquis, there might be others to far off places. They needed the chance to really remove themselves from the filth of their jobs. Having the house in Truro, and their newfound interests had helped immensely, but being able to look forward to a plane ride to what was truly another world would be invigorating.

"Yes." Starsky closed the brochure, tracing the script E with the tip of his index finger.

"No discussion about the rules?"

"As your sub, I do what I'm told," Starsky replied, but his eyes betrayed him. They held such laughter Hutch chuckled aloud.

"Within reason, and for only certain lengths of time." He raised a stiff finger, but couldn't maintain any illusion of authority while giggling. "That could get you in trouble, and I'm not kidding, Starsk. Corporal punishment is the standard around there."

"I'll be on my best behavior," Starsky promised. "I've been thinking about a tattoo for a while."

"You have?"

"I have an idea--a design in mind, but I want to surprise you."

Hutch was touched and amazed that Starsky would do this for him, and had in fact been planning to do it. "Do you want me to come along?"

"No, this is special, from me to you." Starsky slipped his hand under the edge of the tablecloth, grasping Hutch's tightly. "Kinda like one of those seals to cement the bargain."

"That would entail molten wax on skin, a tattoo is much more permanent."

"Didn't we do that the very first time?"

"Now that you mention it, so we did." Hutch squeezed his hand. "Probably should stock up on more candles, you never know when there might be a black out."

"Yeah, I bet the electricity is real dicey in the session chamber, huh?" Starsky said, regarding him with suspicion.

"Always good to be prepared." Hutch tried to look as innocent as possible, but he was already concocting a more elaborate scenario than their initial foray, involving hot wax and maybe some ice, too.

"Leroy's on the way back with the hot towels and mints. That do for now?" Starsky's voice broke into his reverie.

"It'll have to." Hutch had to disengage his hand from Starsky's to find his credit card, but he liked the way the warmth still remained on his palm, and was almost loath to use the heated wash cloth Leroy placed carefully in front of him.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Outside once again, Starsky crossed to the car, jangling the keys in his hand, but paused, looking over at the shadowy gazebo in the park.

"What?" Hutch was still tucking his plastic back into the wallet and nearly walked into his partner.

"Just remembering that first time we went out to eat--my ear still smarting from the piercing." Starsky absently turned the small diamond stud in his left ear, a habit he'd acquired after the piercer told him to give it a quarter turn every few hours to aid in healing. The hole was well healed now, but he still liked turning it, feeling the tangible symbol of Hutch's devotion. "When we went into that little gazebo in the park."

"Oh." Now it was Hutch's turn to give the tiny word a few extra syllables. "I forgot, you haven't seen what the construction crew finished in the back yard last week."

"Your mysterious project?" Starsky laughed. Hutch had banned him from the walled off 'secret garden' in the far end of the yard two weeks earlier. It wasn't such a hardship, they'd been working almost non-stop since then and he hadn't had any time at all to wander through the overgrown tangle of foliage that grew there anyway. He'd nearly forgotten about the whole thing.

"Suddenly I'm in a big hurry to get home. Drive, slave," Hutch ordered good-naturedly.

"Oh, plans have changed?"

"No, just solidified."

Starsky grinned, knowing there would be some sort of bondage and hot, sweaty sex very soon. He steered the car around the main square and back in the direction of their little abode. They'd be home in less than half an hour and then the fun would begin.

"Y'know," Starsky said, thumbing the remote to open the gate to their drive. "I been thinking maybe we should give this place a name."

"Did you have something in mind?"

Starsky nosed the big red car down the lane, his headlights picking out the red door and garage of the white house. "Carlysle's Place."

"How about Carlysle's Idyll," Hutch offered. "She didn't start this romance, but she gave us a place to play."

"Terrific." Starsky climbed out of the car, watching Hutch, his submissive headspace slamming down almost before he expected. After all, they'd already spent a whole day as master and slave, he was usually ready to take it easy after a hard session. Right now, it was almost like they hadn't done a kinky thing in weeks and he was starved for Hutch's firm hand. He laughed aloud, and knelt on the asphalt.

"Such a lovely pet," Hutch said softly, ruffling Starsky's long curls. "You take my breath away."

"Please fuck me, master."

"What a nice way to ask," Hutch chuckled. "Walk into the back yard and wait for me by the new gate at the back."

Starsky stood with Hutch's hand still entangled in his hair. When he was completely on his feet, Hutch pulled him close, kissing him firmly on the lips until Starsky felt wobbly and light-headed. Every time he tried to reciprocate, Hutch just kissed him harder, thrusting his tongue into Starsky's mouth with a driving force. Fucking him with his tongue; their lips mashed together, breathing rapid and gasping, bodies so close Starsky could feel the jut of Hutch's erection hot against his groin through the fabric of both their suits. Hutch was clutching his hair so tightly it was pulling on his scalp, but was such a minor irritation it was more like a teasing ache than a real pain.

Raising an arm, Starsky curved it around Hutch's body to keep himself from falling, because he was seriously woozy. How did Hutch do this to him after so many years? He felt like a high school kid with a crush on the football captain, kissing in front of his house, in full view of peeking parents. Of course, there weren't really any voyeurs, since none of the neighbors lived close enough to see a thing, and their recently constructed privacy fence was more than adequate for the job. But it felt so deliciously illicit to be doing this in the driveway.

Hutch finally relinquished his hold, fluffing the crushed curls into place. Starsky leaned against him, listening to both of them pant, not quite ready to part from his lover, even for a few minutes.

"That do it for you?" Hutch asked affectionately.

"I think I can make it into the garden before I need another fix, but you know I'm addicted to you." His lips felt blistered, plundered by the furious attack, and he licked the lower one, savoring the faint taste of Hutchinson there.

"What you need is a twelve step program."

"Hutchinson's Anonymous?" Starsky laughed, unknotting his tie.

"More like sexaholics."

"I could go for that. Do they serve snacks at the break just like that one?"

"Count on it. Now, go. I have to pick up some things in the session chamber."

"Cuffs, collars, locks…" Starsky rattled off, walking around the house but speaking loudly enough for Hutch to still hear him. "What else? Whatever was the item of the week at Leather Jungle?"

"You just earned a demerit for insubordination!" Hutch's voice floated back to him as he traipsed over the weed filled vegetable plot.

A motion sensor turned on the lights, giving Starsky a good view of the upper yard. When they had first moved in, it was obvious that Hutch's flight attendant friend Joel, the original owner of the house, had neglected his garden. The hot tub, built into the deck right up against the house, and shaded by a wisteria arbor, was the only thing that showed any care. Attempts at growing vegetables and perennials had been abandoned at some point in the distant past, and all were turning brown. Starsky found it amusing to plunge his hand into the dirt near the drooping tomatoes and discover long forgotten potatoes still growing underground. He didn't do that this night, instead sniffing the air with appreciation. Roses struggled valiantly to blossom, their sweet aroma a lovely accent to the evening. The lawn, what there was of it, had recently been cut by the gardeners, the spicy scent of grass adding to nature's perfume. Slowly but surely Hutch was making headway into the mess with the help of his hired bunch of Mexican workers.

Picking his way over the paving stones that lead down the slope, Starsky was filled with excited anticipation. What had Hutch created behind that stone wall? The place had once consisted of tangles of raspberry bushes, nasturtiums, and some sort of creeping vine Starsky hadn't recognized that had taken over the entire area, like Hitler invading Poland. A brand new wrought iron gate barred the way into the secret garden, and he was astonished to see a small brass plaque cemented into the wall. On closer inspection it read "Carlysle's Idyll" which made him laugh out loud.

Before they'd come together as master and slave, he'd been vaguely aware that Hutch had some family money that he hardly ever used. His succession of old beater cars and low rent apartments hardly required much cash outlay. So, the evidence of Hutch's largess, and his apparent love of spending it on things that would make them both happy, was a constant source of surprise for Starsky. This was just one of the reasons he'd been thinking seriously about getting a special tattoo, one that linked him forever to Hutch but far more intimate than just having "I belong to KH" scrawled permanently across his backside.
Hutch brought him joy, pure and simple. When they were arguing over some trivial point while waiting out a boring stakeout. While they were tossing paper wads at each other over the squadroom water cooler until Dobey yelled their names out loudly. When they were curled in their big bed, content just to twine their long limbs together, no sex, just steadfast love. He knew that he could live without Hutch, if he had to, but there would be nothing left of his life, then. No fire, no passion or happiness. Just existence.

Luckily, they were together for the long haul, a couple as married as any man and woman who'd stood in front of a preacher. Their own ceremony had, of course, been private, just the two of them; Hutch with his entire hand inside Starsky's rectum, the pulse of their two hearts beating in tandem as they pledged their love. A moment Starsky would never forget, even without the Kodak proof.

Tracing his finger over the etched letters on the shiny brass, Starsky laughed. Hutch acted like he'd just thought up the name for the house, when he'd planned it all along. Carlysle had been, and always would be, their inspiration. She had been the catalyst into their exploration of BDSM, and Starsky liked to think of her as his patron saint of pleasure and pain. When he went to his first meeting of slave's branch of MAST with Lisa maybe he could bring that up. Perhaps they could sell little medallions with Carlysle's profile on one side and the logo "Masters and Slaves Together" with a pair of cuffs on the other as fund raisers. Coinage of the realm, as it were.

"Take off your clothes and fold them neatly." Hutch's voice startled Starsky for a moment, he'd been so lost in thought. "This little garden is an extension of the house," Hutch said in his dominant voice. "So when you are on the clock, you will always be naked in the confines of this wall."

"Yes, Master," Starsky murmured with a glad heart, stripping swiftly. Although he'd been inside all day long, he knew the weather had been warm. The air at 8 p.m. was still balmy, a soft breeze just bringing a hint of nighttime fog.

Hutch unlatched the ornate metal gate, stepping back to let Starsky pass through. The fact that the gate's iron curlicues held numerous places to bind a slave to was not lost on Starsky, and he shivered in excited anticipation of the marvelous games they would play in this place.

Where there had once been just a tangle of vines, there was now a carpet of smooth grass leading to a beautiful white gazebo shining in the moonlight like a wedding cake. The entire garden was only twenty feet by twenty feet, so the pretty structure took up most of the space but the high stone wall surrounding it acted more like an backdrop for the centerpiece rather than a stockade. Vines had been trained up the lattice work sides of the gazebo, with tiny white flowers beginning to peek out from the greenery. The scent was heavenly.

"Night blooming Jasmine," Hutch said, leaning over a cluster of star-shaped flowers.

Starsky dropped once again to his knees, cushioned by the soft grass, in awe of this private paradise. "Like our own Estate."

"Yes." Hutch turned back to face him, smiling. The moon picked out the silver threads shot through his gray suit and tie, limning him in fairy dust. "I like seeing you this way, pure, natural…" He shrugged out of his jacket, the white of his shirt bright in the darkness. "Lie back, spread out on the grass."

Bracing himself with his hands behind him, Starsky let himself fall back into the cool, scratchy lawn. A tiny portion of his brain wondered idly about spiders, ants, and other insects in the grass, but most of his thoughts were taken up with the sight of Hutch unzipping his pants and stepping out of them. Then Hutch's hands were on his naked chest, tweaking his nipples into burning peaks and supersensitizing his skin until he needed to cry out with desire.

Hutch chuckled, blanketing Starsky's body with his own. "I don't think the neighbors can hear us, but just in case, the gazebo is soundproofed."

"Then, let's get in there soon," Starsky suggested breathlessly, taking the chance to nip at a triangle of skin revealed by Hutch's half buttoned shirt.

"Keep those teeth to yourself," Hutch chastised mildly. He pulled Starsky to his feet, running over to the doorway to the pavilion. "The other night when it rained, my leg started to ache, where it was broken, and I got to thinking about all those nights when it was up on pulleys and you'd come to the hospital…"

"Long time ago," Starsky murmured, wondering where this was leading. Hutch had broken his leg in a horrible car accident five years earlier, laying under the car for nearly two days before Starsky found him. Just the memory really wrecked the mood they'd created.

"Yeah, but the traction," Hutch smiled, pointing up. A trapeze bar, so useful for myriad bondage situations was hanging there with two lengths of chain attached to it. "Lie down again, on that bench with your hands above your head."

Intrigued but still not entirely sure what Hutch planned, Starsky lay flat on the leather padded bench in the middle of the eight sided room. Like their session chamber in the house, this one didn't immediately shout dungeon. It was too pretty, too delicate. But there were four benches that could be lined up against the octagonal walls for seating or put to use in any kind of play. Above, in the rafters were the sorts of hooks, pulleys and the ubiquitous trapeze that Starsky had come to expect in BDSM. It all depended on how you viewed things. Those hooks could be for suspending a plant, or a slave.

Hutch swiftly buckled the cuffs back around Starsky's wrists and attached them to short chains so his arms were restrained comfortably, as if he were reaching for the wall directly behind him. The legs were trickier because Hutch had to get the trapeze bar at just the right height to have the knees bent slightly and still keep Starsky's butt touching the bench. As he worked, he continually stroked and nuzzled various parts of his slave's anatomy until Starsky was totally pliant and very much back in the mood for sex.

"So that's where I left that thing," Hutch proclaimed in mock surprise, framed by Starsky's legs and looking straight down between them.

"Coulda asked me, I knew where it was," Starsky replied truthfully, very ready to be free of the thing, and relishing his unencumbered view of Hutch. Although pantless, he still wore an unbuttoned shirt which just seemed accentuate his wide shoulders and long torso.

Grunting as his master pulled free the rounded red butt plug, Starsky concentrated on breathing. Sometimes in the height of the moment he forgot that most basic tenet of life, especially if there was some pain involved. Luckily, nothing was painful once his muscles relinquished their hold on the plug, and in fact, he found this position quite relaxing. Hutch had gotten the tension on the pulleys just right so his legs didn't feel like they were being pulled out of the hip sockets. That didn't presuppose that on some other occasion Starsky might not be spread-eagled to the limits of his endurance.

"Now, we're talking," Hutch said with relish, gently probing Starsky's hole with his now lubricated cock.

Prolonging the anticipated event, Hutch ran his hands delicately up and down the back of Starsky's legs, causing little zingy goosebumps. Then he blew lightly on the hair nesting around his cock, tickling the sensitive spot just under the scrotum until Starsky couldn't stand it any longer. "Whadda you waiting for?" he growled impatiently. "Do it, now!"

"Second demerit in under ten minutes, slave," Hutch said, but he heaved forward all at once, nailing Starsky back against the padded bench with a loud bellow.

"Oh, fuck!" Starsky screamed, Hutch's whole penis sliding in in one continuous push. It didn't matter how many times he'd done this in the past, it always surprised him that his muscles protested. The sharp cramp burned away almost as soon as he perceived it but it was always there, no matter how well prepared he was or how often he'd been plugged. Hutch pulled out partway and slammed back in with tremendous force, wrenching another scream out of him.

Starsky really wanted to be able to grip his thighs around the man now completely inside him, keep him there for always, but his ankles were attached too far apart on the bar, his legs swaying uselessly in the air. "Keep going, keep going," he encouraged, gasping between thrusts. It was better than it had ever been, better than the day before; Hutch's power flowing through him like a tonic. Every time Hutch pushed forward, Starsky's welt striped butt bounced against the slick leather under him, adding its own brand of painpleasure to the mix until he was drunk on sensation, reeling in a miasma of sexual bliss.

His body arched back in coital vigor, Hutch shouted his release, semen pulsing into Starsky's rectum. He didn't disengage, however, but continued a more gentle rhythm of pumping, like that last victory lap around the track after having won the race. Starsky finally came just as Hutch was slipping free, splattering cum all over his shirt.

"Oops." Starsky giggled weakly.

"Happens," Hutch said philosophically, wiping some of the sticky fluid off with the edge of his shirt. "You can always take this to the cleaners for me tomorrow."

"Your wish is my command, master," Starsky said sardonically, and grinned. He really liked having a gazebo.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hutch drove his car on Monday afternoon, giving Starsky time to doze on the way into Bay City. Traffic was snarled for miles on the freeway, turning the one-hour commute into an almost two-hour ordeal. Hutch was not at all surprised to hear Harold Dobey's characteristic bellow the moment they came through the detective squadroom doors.

"Y'know, I'm beginning to think I wouldn't even be able to start my day off right without the melodious, dulcet tones of the Cap's voice callin' me into his office." Starsky grinned, swiping the last of the cinnamon rolls out of a pink bakery box before heading over to their superior's open door.

Hutch followed, allowing himself one brief look at Starsky's jeans-clad rear end before banishing all thoughts the three fading pink welts covered by that blue fabric.
He was all the way inside the office before he realized there was another person in the small room besides Starsky and Dobey.

"Hutch," Starsky said brightly, and his voice held a hint of tension that dashed over Hutch like a bucketful of water, especially when he saw the identity of the black-haired woman. "Look who it is, Ms. Tat…Tas'mi?" Starsky fumbled over her name.

"Jeanne Tatsumi," Caress said smoothly, shaking Starsky's hand and then Hutch's. "I asked Captain Dobey if I could talk to the three of you on a somewhat private matter."

Even though Hutch was fully aware Caress would never reveal his private life to the captain, her presence there, in that office, blurred the boundaries that they all tried to place around their BDSM lives, to separate it from their more public selves. What was she here for?

Even Dobey looked somewhat disconcerted, and Hutch wondered, with an acid wave in his belly, what exactly she had said before they'd arrived.

"Miss Tatsumi ID'd a body in the morgue earlier," Dobey began gruffly. "The Jane Doe you two found down at the pier last weekend."

"The floater?" Starsky specified. "She--uh-didn't look very good after her swim. Musta been hard for you, ma'am."

"Yes." Caress pursed her perfect lips, flawless skin tight over flat cheekbones.

Hutch could tell she was upset, but only because he'd spent time with her. A casual observer would only focus on the beauty and not the well hidden distress underneath.

"But, luckily, there were certain specific marks that I was able to recognize."

"Marks?" Hutch asked. From the way she had said it, he immediately flashed on the three parallel lines on Starsky's butt.

"Yes." Caress looked straight up at him.

Hutch knew with a jolt why she was here. It wasn't so much what he and Starsky did in their private hours as much as the knowledge they held about such play.

"The girl's name was Lily Evanovich--and she was a girl, not quite eighteen. I met her." She swallowed, black eyes suspiciously bright, but dry. "I was counseling her due to her age. People may consider my way of life sinful and perverse, but as a community we pride ourselves on conducting our scenes safely, and with mutual consent amongst all parties involved.

"And you think this girl was murdered because she was involved in…illegal sex acts?" Dobey trailed off, obviously uncomfortable with the subject matter, which amused Hutch just a little. The man had been a cop for thirty years, seen all sorts of crime and corruption, but he couldn't talk about BDSM.

"Let me finish," Caress said archly, her dominatrix side coming to the fore. "Lily had come onto the scene in the last year. At first, like all virgins--to the scene--she was on the sidelines, but that didn't last long. She soon acquired the look--tattoos, a comfort level with more advanced play, that showed she was being tutored by someone experienced."

"So you talked to her?" Hutch asked, glancing over at the unusually quiet Starsky.
Caress always had this effect on him, and was probably the single other person Starsky would ever submit to. Not that Hutch expected him to, or wanted him to. Starsky was all his, but for some reason the power that radiated out of the tiny Japanese woman totally subdued the usually irrepressible cop.

"She was evasive," Caress said with a small moue. "But agreed to come over and speak with me privately in my home. She recognized me as a Domme, willingly showed me the evidence of recent beatings, and abuse. And I do mean she appeared beaten--not marked or smacked as a proper master would. Really cruel stuff, wounds that had bled, not just welts, all over her body, but especially on her neck, breasts and thighs. She was proud of those marks, poor thing."

"How would you tell the difference?" Dobey asked with more than a hint of anger.

He had no concept of the scene, Hutch realized, nothing of the rituals, disciplines and implicit consent considered necessary in BDSM.

"I've read some books on the subject," Hutch began, and glanced at his teacher in whipping and knot tying. She gave a small nod, allowing him to continue. "The submissive, or slave, and the dominant usually have some agreement as to where the session will go, whether there will be pain--…"

"Whippings and stuff," Starsky added, turning slightly away from Dobey's desk as if he couldn't quite say this while looking at their superior's face. "And most masters--doms, work to get some kinda skill with the leather goods, or they'll just hurt the slave, and then they can't keep doin' it."

"Even the marks afterwards would be that obviously different?" Dobey questioned skeptically.

"Yes, to a trained eye," Caress assured. "Captain Dobey, this is exactly why I wanted these two men on the case. Both Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky proved their tact, decency, and intelligence when they investigated my good friend Elisabeth Carlysle's murder. Their level of understanding is essential for ferreting out the facts here. I am naturally hesitant to put blame on an innocent party, but from what I've learned since talking to Lily, I have grave suspicions."

"Did Lily tell you who she'd been with?" Hutch asked.

"No, but some of the wounds concerned me enough to go to the board of MAST."

"MAST?" Dobey echoed.

"Masters and Slaves Together, a supportive group that brings our community together, and also does a small amount of internal governing. I was one of the founding members, and still sit on the board of our local chapter."

Starsky raised his eyebrows at Hutch, taking in this new information about their friend.

"I outlined the situation to the board, and we all agreed to keep our eyes open for further abuses." She cocked her head as if still hearing their decision. "It wasn't quite as far as I'd have liked to go--especially in retrospect, but there was no specific proof pointing to any one individual."

"What kind of wound was it that really tipped you off?" Starsky was perched on the edge of Dobey's desk, since Hutch and Caress were using the two chairs, so he had to lean forward to speak to her.

Using a blood red polished nail, Caress traced a line around her own slender neck just above the purple boat-necked shirt she wore. "A ligature line. Not the sort of bruising caused by an overly tightened slave collar, more like erotic asphyxiation. She still has another one now, very deep this time."

"According to the autopsy, it's what killed her." Dobey soberly tapped the report with a thick forefinger. "You think she was strangled by a dominant?"

"Asphyxiation is the one area of play which we don't even condone," Caress explained, still a study in calmness, a delicate Buddha radiating tranquility. But there were tiny signs of distress, especially the way her long-fingered hand still rested on the neck of her shirt. "It's very dangerous even when done by an experienced dom-- and worse when the done alone, by an amateur. I'm sure you realize that many young boys found hanging in their homes initially are found with their pants around their knees, and Playboy or Penthouse magazine nearby, and their families cleaned up the room before the police arrive."

"It's certainly happened, but I don't think it's that common…" Dobey began. Defending the officers under his command for perhaps overlooking such details, Hutch thought.

"I've written several published articles on the subject," Caress' voice had the merest hint of testiness. "But I didn't mean to get up on the soapbox, that isn't why I came. After I'd spoken to Lily I noticed another girl, a child of 16, with the same red line on her neck. This wasn't the first time I've seen this kind of bruising, but it seems more prevalent of late. This girl was with a man--known as the Captain because his real given name is James Kirk. I will admit that I've never liked him. He takes dangerous chances, and is far too cruel for my taste. That, and he won't conform to the rules MAST is trying to instigate."

"But you don't know whether your…feelings are prejudicing you against Kirk?" Starsky summed up acutely.

"Yes, I feel distinctly uncomfortable coming forth with this, except for the fact that both the child, and another girl are missing. When I heard, through certain channels I cannot name, about Lily's body, I had to come."

Those certain channels were Assistant D.A. Lisa Hartman, Caress' personal slave girl. Hutch wondered how Lisa happened to see, or find out about, the poor drowned Lily. He was also more than a little intrigued by the latest clues into Jeanne Tatsumi's private life. He'd been over to Caress' gracious home numerous times in the role of student, but their discussions were always about BDSM, never any other interests or activities.

"How long have these two girls been missing?" Hutch pulled out a small notebook to take down the details. Starsky silently plucked a pen out of a can on Dobey's desk and handed it over just as Hutch was patting down his pockets for something to write with.

"The younger one, Magenta, she was a Rocky Horror Picture Show fan, and I don't know her real name. She hasn't been around for several days. I asked around last night because I knew you'd ask. Most people think she was staying with Kirk, but another woman who lets the younger girls sleep at her house said she'd left him. I'd say it's been four or five days since anyone saw her. The other girl, Torry, I last saw the night you found Lily."

"A week ago, Saturday," Starsky confirmed. "Did she know the Captain?"

Dobey made a grumbly noise, obviously not happy with someone like Kirk sharing his title.

He… collected the young ones and cast them aside. I have no proof other than that. But I wouldn't put it past him to be experimenting with asphyxiation."

"Then go over and talk to this man, establish any links, any motives…" Dobey ordered gruffly. He had a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. This couldn't be easy for a man with a pre-teen daughter.

"Getting right on it, yes siree, " Starsky jumped up so fast that a crepe-papered orange juice can tipped over, scattering pencils and pens everywhere. Even Caress laughed at the sour expression on Dobey's face, and bent to help collect the pens.

Hutch rolled his eyes in consternation at his exuberant partner, stuffing pencils into the can marked "I love you Daddy from Rosie", with a pang of sadness for the little girls on the streets who didn't have fathers like Harold Dobey. He wouldn't even have to dig deep into the backgrounds of Magenta and Torry to guess that they were raised in dysfunctional, angry families with parents who beat and threatened. Girls left these environments daily, bound for Hollywood and stardom, only to find their dreams dashed on the streets by men such as Kirk. There was a fine, almost indistinct, line between abuse, and certain types of BDSM. In the wrong hands, it could be humiliating and demoralizing, but with the right combination of an ethical Dominant and a loving submissive, bondage, pain play and rough sex became something entirely different and special.

"Can I get you any coffee, Miss Tatsumi?" Hutch asked formally since Dobey was still standing in the doorway. His telephone rang, and he closed the door, leaving the others in the practically deserted squadroom. Starsky was already pouring three mugs, and stirring several packets of sugar into his own. "We'll need Kirk's home and work address, anything else you can tell us about him."

"One just like yours, David," Caress directed.

"I woulda taken you for a tea drinker," Starsky grinned, dumping the sugar into a mug with the slogan "Cops do it with authority" on the side in bright red letters.

"When I'm relaxing. On duty, I need a little stimulant." She gave him a rare smile in return, accepting the mug. "And I see I got the dominant cup."

"Only fitting."

After taking a few sips, Hutch eyed his teacher speculatively, uncertain whether to bring up what he'd been pondering for the last few minutes.

"You have something on your mind, Ken?" Caress looked up from writing out the information he'd asked for.

"I'm not prying, but I think we have the right to know." Hutch paused, glancing at Starsky who sent silent encouragement. "Were you one of the girls Kirk discarded once upon a time?"

"It was not my finest hour," she admitted, folding her hands demurely in her lap, but Hutch could see that she clutched them together a shade too tightly. "I had a very early interest in kink--which is why I'm trying to be an advocate for these girls. I was far too young, and men like him prey upon the weak and eager. I didn't really have the stomach to be a slave, and the first time he got overly careless, I left." She lifted a hand, rubbing her neck again. "H-he tried to teach me a lesson a few days later, and I ended up in the hospital."

"Rape?" Starsky asked, appalled.

"I doubt that a prosecutor would see it that way--I'd let him do a great many things to me in the month we were together, but I was under age, and injured." She looked him straight in the eye; her back ramrod straight, black eyes like obsidian marbles, showing no vulnerability. "That's all of my history you will hear. I couldn't fight back legally then. Too young, too stupid, and too naïve. But I became a Domme, and now I have power."

"No doubt about that," Starsky said under his breath, disguising the comment by raising his mug to his mouth.

"My only concern is that I might be totally off the mark with this one. Even with the marginal authority of the MAST board behind me I couldn't invade his privacy because one girl was missing."

"But now she's dead, and two others are gone," Hutch concluded. "You have every reason now, since Magenta was living with him."

"Lisa pointed out that going to him with accusations would cause irreparable repercussions around our community, and we all value our privacy as sacrosanct, so…"

"Your name won't enter the conversation," Hutch said smoothly.

"You ready to go?" Starsky shrugged on his jacket.

"Yes." Hutch pocketed Kirk's address. "I guess that means we're off the slasher case?"

"Weren't doing much to begin with," Starsky said gloomily. "Maybe we can solve this one."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

James Kirk's residence didn't shed any light on his possibly amoral activities, but Starsky had long known that what showed on the outside didn't always reflect what was inside a home, or a person. Sometimes an expensive mansion hid a wife beating husband, and other times the poorest of hovels housed kind and loving parents who simply couldn't provide for their families. But the modernistic, faux-Frank Lloyd Wright house oozed understated elegance and wealth, just exactly what would awe an impressionable young girl embarking on her first encounter with a dominant. She'd be uncertain, a little excited, and probably half drunk as they arrived. She'd ooh and ah over the manicured lawn, perfectly maintained rose bushes and expansive front door. Certainly no one who could afford a place like this would do a young thing any harm.

So many had been so wrong before.

According to Caress, Kirk had been living in this house for the last twenty years, since before her stay at the age of sixteen, in '65. Starsky grimaced to think of tiny but adventuresome Jeanne Tatsumi setting forth to discover the world of BDSM only to meet such a slime. That same year he'd been preparing to be shipped over to Viet Nam.

"Penny?" Hutch asked, checking the gun strapped under his left arm before getting out of the Torino.

"Not worth the money." Starsky hooked a finger over the bridge of his sunglasses, looking over at Hutch for a long minute. He slid the glasses back into place, then closed the car door with a hip swing. "Although Kirk musta paid a lot more than that for this pile of timber and glass."

"Considerably, especially if it was built by any of Wright's students." Hutch appraised the building for a moment before walking up the front path to the double wide door featuring huge brass door knobs.

Pushing on the doorbell produced absolutely no results, but Starsky was getting that itchy feeling in the back of his neck that boded no good. Maybe he was imagining things, but there was a definite air of foreboding about the place--like one of those mansions in a horror movie that was revealed in a clap of lightning. He reached up to touch the silver chain locked around his neck, a symbol of Hutch's enduring love. Just the feel of it against his throat was strong and reassuring.

"Maybe I should go around the back." Starsky said, already headed that way. "Give me two minutes to find a way in?"

Just as he said it, the front door opened a crack, revealing what appeared, at first glance, to be a child. "What?" she asked, looking surprised to see someone there, staring up at them with bloodshot brown eyes.

"Is James Kirk here?" Hutch asked politely.

She wasn't as young as he'd first thought, Starsky realized. She was just tiny, barely five feet, and completely nude, at least the portion of her that he could see around the edge of the door. She would have been flawlessly pretty, with her dark red, almost burgundy curls, and high cheek bones, if it weren't for the mottled bruising around her neck. A sleek silver ring encircled her neck, almost like a simple necklace, except that on closer inspection it had no clasp or hook, no visible means to get it off. She was also very obviously stoned out of her gourd, or she probably wouldn't have opened the door to them.

"Nobody's supposed t'come in," she said petulantly.

"We're not nobody, we're friends of Caress," Hutch continued in a gentle, persuasive voice.

"Are you Magenta?" Starsky guessed, remembering the squeaky voiced character in the late night movie he and Hutch had attended a few years before.

"Yeah." She grinned dreamily, swaying slightly to some internal music.

"Then Caress sent us to find you." Hutch pushed carefully on the door until Magenta had no choice but to step back to let them in. "She's been worried."

Magenta's face crumpled, but she pressed one hand against her garishly lipsticked mouth as if to keep herself from talking. She shook her head mutely.

"Is Kirk here?" Hutch repeated.

This time she nodded, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of them like a cornered feral creature.

Starsky wanted to hug her, assure her everything was going to turn out all right, but held back because she looked so genuinely afraid.

"Caress said she talked to you," Hutch began, easing closer to the girl.

Taking the hint, Starsky slipped away, crossing the wide entry hall to an enormous sunken living room. Rectangle-shaped stone risers appeared to be floating downward into the minimally furnished chamber, and nothing on earth would have prompted Starsky to step onto one of those blocks, even though he knew there was a metal support underneath. Besides, no one occupied either the cubist sofa or uncomfortable looking Danish modern chairs. With a last glance at an incomprehensible Jackson Pollack drop cloth painting, Starsky cat-footed it down the hall. The lighting was gloomy, making if difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. He shivered. The place was surprisingly cold, despite the clement May weather, and Magenta must have been freezing without any clothes on. He could still hear Hutch taking softly to the girl, asking her questions.

Poking into each door, Starsky found the expected bathrooms and bedrooms. At the end of the hall he discovered a door that opened onto a flight of stairs into darkness. Fighting the urge to run and get Hutch for back up, Starsky took a deep breath, and started to descend. Halfway down, there was a small landing that angled the stairs to the left toward a dimly lit room. Glad to see some sign of life, Starsky moved a little faster, and pulled his weapon, just to be on the safe side.

Emerging into another hall, Starsky stood still, getting his bearings. He felt like he'd gone a long way underground, but knew logically that that couldn't be so. Because Kirk's house was built on the side of a hill, a good portion of the place was hidden from the front, which had appeared to be only a single story. Very few houses in Southern California had basements or subterranean rooms, but many hugged the side of the angled landscape, hanging on with the help of stilts and deeply buried cement posts. He listened, hoping to hear something, but it was eerily quiet. This was getting weird, and he very much wanted to get the hell out, but it was his job to search the entire house. They'd found Magenta--would their luck hold out for Torry, too?

Advancing with the utmost caution, Starsky entered the room to his left. He wasn't at all surprised to find a dungeon-like space complete with metal cuffs embedded in the stone walls, and a huge rack. He'd been in such a place more than once in the last five months, but this one had a creep factor second to none. Maybe it was the bone chilling cold, or just the spooky atmosphere permeating the whole house.

"Police!" Starsky called out, going for the letter of the law. After all, it wouldn't do to have the case thrown out on a technicality, and he'd already been all over without a warrant. Finding the missing girl pretty much mitigated any piece of paper, because it gave them probable cause to search, but one could never be too careful, even belatedly. His voice seemed to be sucked up into nothingness, proving that the dungeon had even better soundproofing than the session chamber he and Hutch had in their home.

A leather door studded with brass opened into another smaller room much like the first, but this one was inhabited. Starsky sucked in a startled gasp, nearly stumbling over the figure bound on the floor. It didn't matter that he'd been quite similarly garbed only a few days before--that such an anonymous bundle of leather had been left unattended, something Hutch would never do, was shocking. He'd never seen himself completely encased in leather and cuffed so tightly, and the sight of what was obviously a small woman, from the shape of the torso, was unnerving in a way that he wasn't quite sure he wanted to think about. The girl wore a form-fitting leather mask that covered her head completely, and that was locked in the back with a small padlock. Only tiny holes in the general area of the nose allowed in any air, the mouth slit was zippered shut.

Kneeling, Starsky touched the girl's thigh, her only uncovered body part. She was barely warm, not surprising at the current temperatures, but he worried that she was dead. Like Magenta, she had a smooth silver ring around her neck, and this time he could see the join where it had been soldered together. Removal would be extremely difficult. Just above the shiny collar was a narrow leather band, twisted so tightly around her neck that it cut deeply into the flesh. His heart pounding with anxiety, Starsky worked at the knots, but he couldn't free them. Engrossed in his task, he didn't hear the man approach until it was far too late.

A hand yanked back on the silver chain Starsky wore, pulling it taut against his windpipe, cutting off his air supply. He groped at the hands, trying to break their hold, but in an impossibly short time he could feel consciousness slipping away, black and red dots darkening his vision. He tried to slip a finger under the chain to create some slack, but the thick links were solid steel, and completely unforgiving, compressing his larynx and trachea until Starsky could feel his lungs fluttering in desperation for a single breath. Going limp, Starsky sank to the floor, throwing his captor off balance. He vaguely heard the man curse, but it was a far off sound, like a neighbor's radio.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Not liking the whole set up one bit, Hutch led Magenta into a spacious kitchen, scanning the room for a phone. It was so cold that his first thought was that the furnace must be broken, but since the outside air was a great deal warmer, it could only mean that Kirk had intentionally set his air conditioner to arctic levels.

"Aren't you cold?" Hutch asked, sitting the girl at a round marble table. He'd already tried to question her on Kirk's whereabouts, Torry's, and whether there was anyone else in the house with them, but Magenta was drifting in her own private paradise. Every once in a while she surfaced to notice him, but as before, she alternated between a strange girlish giggle and stark terror. Right then, she was smiling vacantly at nothing in particular, humming the song Magenta sang to her freezer entombed lover in Rocky Horror Picture Show. Hutch draped his letterman's jacket around her naked shoulder, but she barely seemed to notice.

A quick phone call to dispatch put Hutch in contact with a black and white that was luckily only a few blocks away. He was concerned that Starsky hadn't returned after his sortie, but wasn't happy about leaving Magenta on her own. Where was Kirk? Had he heard them arrive and escaped out the back? Or was he lying in wait somewhere? That was Hutch's greatest fear, that Starsky had walked into something he wasn't prepared for.

A knock on the still open front door heralded the uniforms who took charge of Magenta, and promised to call in more reinforcements. Hutch retraced Starsky's footsteps, finding the door to the lower floor ajar. About half way down, he realized he could hear a low gasping moan. Was someone having sex? This didn't sound like one of the participants was having much fun, but then, with Kirk's reputation, that was to be expected. Hutch crept closer, walking silently on the balls of his feet. Moments later the moan dissolved into a strangled choking sound.

Freeing his pistol from the holster, Hutch came through the dungeon in a crouch. Still hearing the horrible noises, he dashed across the stone floor to a leather door to see a broad shouldered man grappling with someone smaller. Both toppled to one side, and with a sickening jolt, Hutch caught a glimpse of just who the big man was garroting. Without a moment's hesitation, he brought the butt of his Magnum down on the sadist's skull, knocking him senseless, and loosening his grip on the chain.

Not even bothering to give Kirk more than a cursory glance, Hutch pushed him away, bending over Starsky, scared out of his mind. Starsky's face was a frightening blue-gray, his eyes rolled back in his head, but a high pitched wheezy whistle came out as his chest heaved, proving he was breathing.

"Starsk?" Hutch hovered, ready to administer rescue breaths at the first sign of need, but Starsky waved him back with a feeble hand. "Damn, we're getting rid of that chain this minute. I never thought…I've got the key here somewhere." He nearly dropped his gun fumbling through his pockets.

"Hu'sh…"

"Detective Hutchinson?" a red haired police officer came in hesitantly, the expression on his face indicating how uncomfortable he was with the current surroundings.

"What?" Hutch reacted too strongly, shoving the Magnum back into the holster to
free his hands. He located the silver S key chain in his back pocket, but left it there, trying to act like a competent detective instead of a terrified lover.

"Biltwell said to come down…for back-up," the cop said lamely. He'd drawn his weapon, pointing it in the direction of Kirk's prostrate body, but it was obvious he wasn't quite sure what was going on.

"Hu'sh." Starsky said again, his voice halfway between a croak and a whisper.

"Hey." Hutch knelt next to his partner, placing one hand lightly on his shoulder. He could feel Starsky's shudders through his palm. "How you doing?"

"Th' girl," Starsky gasped, his breathing forced and wheezy.

"Starsky, what girl?" Hutch focused past the tumble of bodies. Kirk was still lying across Starsky's legs, and Hutch looked at the black leather encased figure just beyond. His scattered wits came back all in a rush, and he stood quickly, staring briefly at the young officer. "What's your name?"

"Shiley, sir."

Gesturing at the sadist, who was just beginning to stir, Hutch said. "Shiley, that's James Kirk, cuff the bastard and haul him in for a string of charges so long it would take a year to list 'em all."

Listening to Shiley recite the Miranda, Hutch bent and hesitantly stroked the supple leather hood on the anonymous slave girl, pressing his finger between the knotted cord and her silver collar to find a pulse, but there was none.

"She's gone," he whispered with regret. He pretended to rub his forehead, covering his eyes to offer up a quick prayer for her short life. Her costume and pose frightened him more than a little because the way she lay was so similar to the position he'd placed Starsky in Friday evening. Was this what he could become? A torturer who hurt the helpless just to get his rocks off? Straightening, he felt Starsky's eyes on him and unerringly turned to meet their intense blue gaze.

Starsky was still breathing too raggedly to speak much but he shook his head, rubbing his neck the way Caress had done. "S'okay."

"It's not okay," Hutch nearly shouted, jabbing his forefinger at Kirk. "He is a murderer. You hear that, Captain Kirk?"

"You broke into my house without probable cause," Kirk retorted. He was still on the floor, but now cuffed with a wary Shiley keeping watch over him.

"You hear that, Shiley?" Hutch asked. "He knows the lingo--probably had his day in court a few times before, haven't you, Captain?"

"I don't have to say anything to you. You assaulted me," Kirk said with a certain hubris. "Before you arrived, we were occupied in perfectly legal activities between consenting adults."

"I doubt her birth certificate was filed over eighteen years ago, but since I can't prove that one, we'll just start with murder, and work our way up from there. How about the little girl upstairs who's higher than a kite? She showed me the cocaine and other pharmaceutical party favors up in the kitchen drawer," Hutch said with a snarl. "Last time I looked, that wasn't legal, even with a consenting adult."

"Margreta?" Kirk stood awkwardly. "That's my daughter."

"Oh, this just keeps getting better and better," Hutch roared, about ready to haul off and clock the man again for what he had done to Starsky, Caress, Magenta-Margreta, and most especially the pathetic child in the corner wrapped in a leather shroud. "Get him out of here, Shiley!"

Already doing just that, Shiley prodded Kirk more forcefully with his pistol to get the man moving just as his partner Biltwell came down to announce that the paramedics had come to take Magenta to the hospital.

"You need to go to the hospital," Hutch said brusquely, pulling out the key to unlock the traitorous chain from around his lover's neck.

"No," Starsky batted him away, a stony look in his eyes.

"It's not up for debate," Hutch declared. "What if he crushed your larynx, your cricoid?"

"Don' even know what that is." Starsky climbed wearily to his feet with Hutch's help. He swallowed with a grimace, still breathing audibly. "But I prob'ly wouldn't be talking."

"It's a little bone just about where the Adam's apple is," Hutch began, then glared at Starsky. He reached up to slide the key into the tiny lock but Starsky side stepped him.

"Leave it on. It's mine." He coughed to clear his throat, but it didn't help much. "You gave this to me."

Conceding, Hutch closed the key in his fist. He's never thought of it that way, but unlike the leather collar they used during sessions, he had given the symbolic collar to Starsky as a gift, and as such, didn't have the same rights to it he had to the other. Starsky had chosen to wear it locked, even though it had proved a very dangerous decision.

"Over to Simon Davies, then," he said wearily. "Before we throw the book at Kirk and grill him like a rack of beef ribs covered in barbecue sauce."

"Can't wait to get started." Starsky grinned, the livid bruises decorating his neck adding a macabre effect.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"All my other patients get carried away with nipple weights and overly tight knots," Dr. Simon Davies complained lightly, examining Starsky's neck for a second time.

He and Hutch had already been in the ER for over an hour, and Starsky was more than ready to leave.

"You two, or more specifically David, come in here with rougher stuff." Davies gently probed around Starsky's Adam's apple, which hurt more than the patient wanted to admit.

"Don't tell me you haven't seen something like this before," Hutch said, leaning against the wall of the tiny examination room.

"I have," Davies conceded gravely. "X-rays showed nothing was broken. I could scope you to check your throat, but since you're talking, I don't think that is necessary. The larynx is pretty badly bruised, though."

"Good," Starsky rasped, wincing. It felt like he had barbed wire lodged just above his trachea.

"Ken, if you could step out? I'd like to finish the exam," the doctor said formally.

Surprised, Starsky caught Hutch's eye, suddenly very aware that the atmosphere had changed very abruptly. Hutch had always been allowed in the room with every other visit to Simon Davies. Starsky nodded reassuringly at his partner, beginning to see where this might be leading. He could set the doctor straight.

"What's wrong?" Hutch challenged anyway. "You think something else happened?"

"What exactly did happen?" Davies asked coolly.

"We told you. We were searching a suspect's house and the situation got ugly!" Hutch stepped closer, between Davies and Starsky. "You think this was some scene that got out of hand, and we're covering up?"

"Stranger things have happened--and unfortunately, it's not the first time in the last few months that I'd had this exact sort of injury in here. Not to mention that David was hurt recently."

"We're cops," Starsky replied tightly, jumping off the exam table only to have Davies stop him. He shook off the doctor's hand, but talking continued to be painful so he didn't elaborate, knowing Hutch would do it for him.

"Dangerous situations come with the job. However, I expected more out of you," Hutch growled, his ire building with each moment. "You're supposed to respect scene participants, but you sound like you're accusing me of assault."

"Hutch!" Starsky placed his palm straight over Hutch's heart, feeling the rapid vibrations of his cardiac muscle. "Sssh." He turned just enough to look up at the doctor's solemn poker face. Davies was not about to be drawn into an argument about this, and had probably been involved in far too many domestic confrontations. For that matter, Starsky had been, too. He swallowed to get moisture into his bruised throat. "A suspect grabbed my chain, end of story. But when did you see this in the ER?"

Barely placated, his face still a stormy thundercloud, Hutch caught Starsky's train of thought. "Was it a young girl?"

"You know I can't reveal patient information," Simon Davies hedged.

"What about if she's dead?" Hutch asked.

"I'd have to have proof. You have a body?"

"Caress--Jeanne Tatsumi came by this morning, ID'd a girl named…"

"Lily," Starsky coughed, the Russian last name hard on his damaged vocal cords. "Ev'n'vitch."

"Lily Evanovich?" Davies repeated, but it was clear from the way he said the name that it was one he recognized.

"You know her?" Starsky asked, excited at the unexpected link to the case.

"She's been in here," Davies admitted.

"When?" Hutch persisted.

"Slow down. You've convinced me that David's bruises were acquired in the line of duty, so I really do need to finish the exam." He gestured at the gurney. "Back up there, I want to look down your throat again."

Starsky complied, still very aware that Hutch was edgy and unsettled by the doctor's insinuations. He tried to ignore it when Davies poked around in the back of his throat with an elongated Q-tip, nearly gagging the whole time.

"This is going to be sore for a week or so. Like any bruise, it takes time to heal." He washed his hands before writing out a prescription. "This is for a spray for pain. Use it sparingly because it basically numbs everything back there, so it's not a good idea to use it before you eat."

"Should he have soup for a couple of days?" Hutch asked.

"Whatever you can stand, but softer is probably better," Davies said, handing Starsky the paper. "Nothing spicy, not too hot, although ice cream and popsicles will feel really good."

"Just like when I had my tonsils out," Starsky grumbled.

"And try to refrain from talking!" he admonished.

"Nothing spicy or too hot," Hutch teased. "You won't be able to eat a thing."

Simon Davies dry scrubbed his face, as if he'd come to a hard decision. "If you two want to come with me, I think a stroll over to medical records is in order."

Starsky grinned up at Hutch as the doctor used the phone, asking the file clerk to pull any records for Evanovich, L.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Captain, we got this guy, in spades," Hutch said triumphantly. He held up the Xeroxed copies from the hospital. "Lily Evanovich talked to a social worker while Simon Davies was treating her. He's a doctor that many of the people in the BDSM scene go to, and the social worker who collaborates with him understands the subtle nuances between abuse and play."

"There are any?" Dobey growled low in his throat.

"Yes, apparently, and Dr. Davies knows the signs. He said he doesn't always refer his patients to a social worker, but this girl came in alone, and was obviously in conflict."

"When did he see her?"

"A month before she disappeared," Starsky said, still sounding like he had laryngitis. "She didn't reveal who hurt her, but said he lives in a big modern house near the ocean, like Kirk, with a dungeon down below, on the hill."

"Exactly like Kirk." Hutch sat in one of the visitor chairs in front of Dobey's desk. He was more than disconcerted with everything they learned about Kirk. Here was a man who had plied his domination over two generations of women, without ever being caught, and more to the point, had done so in the name of consensual pain play without a single sign of remorse. Hutch had felt creepy even being in the same room with the guy. That they shared a kink for dominance was distinctly unnerving. This was not at all how he wanted to see the world of BDSM portrayed.

No wonder Dobey was pissed off. Kirk was a torturer, plain and simple. He preyed on the weak and defenseless. Was it possible that given free rein, Hutch could do to Starsky what Kirk had done to Lily? He passionately hoped not, but the power of the role was so incredibly intoxicating, it was so easy to take pain play that one step further. To forget common sense and rational restraint when the slave was laid out, restrained and yielding. He wanted to vomit. Even Dr. Davies had insinuated the unthinkable.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked in his sandpaper voice.

"Huh? Sorry, it's been a long day," Hutch said, even though it was only five p.m.. It felt like forever since they'd driven in. He wanted to run as far from Kirk as he could; tucking Starsky under his wing, and keeping him there until the bruises on his neck healed. Then he thought about the bruises on Starsky's butt, the ones he'd put there, and felt sick again. What had they fallen into?

"Kirk is yelling for his lawyer, his congressman and whomever else will listen. He's claiming police brutality, by the way," Dobey said. "He won't be getting out on bail that easily. The one girl was dead, and we don't have an ID on her. The other girl…"

"Magenta?" Hutch asked, forcing himself back into the conversation.

"Oh, you must have taken Starsky to the hospital before they found her. Apparently the reason he didn't hear you at the front door is because he was in a sound proofed room below the house."

"Yeah, we saw two. That's where the leather girl was," Starsky said.

"There were several more, according to the initial report," Dobey explained. "Another girl was found, with a silver band around her neck and nothing much else on except a gag and some other bondage paraphernalia. She told the officers her name was Torry Jaynes, and Kirk had been keeping her prisoner in the room for weeks at a time. She'd lived with him for several months. She went to the hospital to be examined, but this girl could be a goldmine."

"Sorry I didn't search the whole place." Starsky swallowed tightly, rubbing his neck, which distracted Hutch.

"You were being attacked!" he said too stridently, then took a deep breath, Starsky's quizzical expression calming him enough to think more logically. Starsky gave him a small pat on the shoulder and went over to the water cooler for a drink. "Captain, any proof that the red haired girl, Margreta or Magenta, is Kirk's daughter?" Hutch asked.

"That one is so drugged she may be out of it for hours," Dobey answered. "Did you notice the silver band around her neck? Soldered in place, the doctor said."

"Yeah, we saw it." Hutch closed his eyes. He couldn't not see it, but he kept remembering a beefy hand twisting the silver links unmercifully around Starsky's neck.

"Kirk has priors going back to the '60s, all with similar charges. He must have some major legal aid on his side to keep sliding out of these cases." Dobey flipped open a fat folder. "Every kind of vice arrest, but he hardly ever spends any time in jail."

"T'rrific," Starsky slurred, his voice only marginally better after the drink.

"Starsky, you need to go home. Didn't the doctor tell you that?"

"I gotta write up reports, Cap." Starsky grinned like a scalawag, nudging Hutch with a lazy elbow. "C'mon, blondie, let's get a move on. Dobey wants me t'go home, and I'm ready as long as you type fast."

"Type fast?" Hutch countered, grateful for Starsky's teasing. They were so in tune with each other's moods Starsky must have known he was in a funk. "I type efficiently. You're the one who always has to rewrite and use lots of Wite-out."

"Didja know that that tall Monkee, the one with the pompom hat…" Starsky led the way to the squadroom, chattering.

"A monkey wearing a pompom hat?" Hutch repeated.

"No! Mike, y'know, Mike? The tall Monkee from the TV show?" Starsky turned to give Hutch his full attention and nearly ran into a filing cabinet. Hutch grabbed his arm, propelling him into a desk chair. As usual, Starsky couldn't sit normally, he climbed up on the back, perching on the crossbar of the chair with his feet in the seat. "Mike…"

"Mike Nesmith," Angie Sommers, a policewoman, supplied from across the room. "The tall one with sideburns. Really good looking, but Davy Jones was the cutie."

"My parents never let us watch that show," Hutch said, finally remembering the madcap retreads of the Beatles.

"Well, his mom invented Wite-out," Starsky finished with a cough. "He inherited everything. The lady was a genius. I could invent something like that, don't you think? Something to make typing easier?"

"You're not supposed to be talking," Hutch reminded him, deadpan. "Lots more typing, and lots less trivia."

"Trivia is my gift," Starsky muttered, but he pecked out the few lines regarding his search of the house on an old Remington.

"Did you listen to their albums?" Angie asked. "I had every one."

"Only if I was visiting my cousin's kids," Starsky rasped. "I was in the Academy then, and Hutch was already ruling my life."

"Don't you just wish," Hutch shook his head, amused in spite of himself at Starsky's antics.

"I gotta be free…" Angie warbled one of the Monkee's hits. "Like the warm September winds babe, say you'll always be my friend, babe…I gotta be free."

"I'm gonna 'dopt that song as my credo." Starsky laughed, sneaking a come hither glance at Hutch under cover of changing the paper in his typewriter.

Hutch felt his libido jump up and pay attention. He typed faster, suddenly very interested in getting Starsky out of there early.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Hey," Starsky swallowed with a wince. "Everything okay in there under all that blond hair?"

"You're the one who was nearly killed," Hutch said tightly, violently twisting the key in the front door to unlock the bolt. Sometimes it stuck, and this was one of those times. He swore, jerking on the slip of metal, but with the perversity of all things, when he was on his last nerve, the key refused to cooperate. Any and all sexual desire that Starsky had nurtured had fled by the time they started home. The usual work of typing reports had multiplied into questions from Internal Affairs and Kirk's lawyers, and they hadn't made it out of Metro any sooner than on any average day, despite Starsky's obvious injuries. Just looking at the lurid bruises softened Hutch's cock. He wasn't even near in the mood anymore.

"Yeah, but I wasn't." Starsky calmly batted Hutch's hand away, gave the key a little finesse, and smoothly unlocked the bolt. He did the same for the door knob and stepped aside, performing a little bow. "You first, master."

"Don't call me that!" Hutch stomped into the living room, prowling the carpet like a caged beast. "I can't…Starsky, that man killed women like they were dolls! Like they were playthings who didn't have a feeling or a thought of their own! Keeping them prisoner, like slaves. I want out of this, I can't do it…"

"You are not Kirk."

"You need to get some rest, your throat must be on fire. I'll make tea," Hutch rambled, ignoring Starsky.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you. I'm not Kirk, thank God." Hutch pulled out a box of loose tea too quickly, spilling it across the delft blue patterned linoleum. "Shit."

"Say it again," Starsky whispered, going for a broom.

"Shitshitshitshit." Hutch smacked the refrigerator hard enough to push the appliance back an inch. "How can I demand anything of you? Put you in cuffs, a leather hood. I'm gonna throw that thing away tonight. You never liked it anyway."

"I don't have to like it, I'm the slave, remember?" Starsky swept the tea into a tidy pile, waiting patiently until Hutch bled off enough anger to hold the dustpan.

"That's bullshit. You're a sentient adult, with opinions and reason. I can't force you to bend to my will, that smacks of feudalism. How could that man live with himself? He makes me sick! That silver band around their necks, his own daughter's neck, soldered in place so they were prisoners of his depraved desires… reducing those girls to mere chattel. No Starsky, this…I'm not…? Am I?" All fight drained suddenly from him and he dropped limply into a chair.

"You are not Kirk," Starsky insisted. His voice was nearly gone, but this needed to be said before he was completely mute. "You are nothing like him. We've talked this over and over. There is no force here, Hutch. I want to do it. I understand if you're…not in the headspace right now, that's okay." Starsky coughed again to clear his throat but it was no use, he still sounded like a two pack a day smoker. "But don't bail on me because of some sick bastard we never heard about until t'day. There's hundreds of 'em like him out there, unfortunately, but if we let 'em affect our lives, then we've lost that freedom. We're consenting adults here, Hutch. I am not some scared sixteen year old fresh off the bus from Nowhere, USA, and you're not a fucking sick bastard who gets his rocks off by torturing little girls." Starsky's voice cut out in the middle of the word "girls", abandoning him completely.

Hutch unsteadily succeeded in getting a pot on the stove to boil, Starsky's words managing to staunch some of the raging self doubt that was attempting to cripple him. They made some kind of sense, but he didn't want to acknowledge them. Everything was too fresh, too painful, right now. Starsky always accused him of stewing over things until he tied himself in a knot, but this wasn't a subject he could dismiss lightly.

What triggers had driven Kirk to his current depravity, and had any of them had similar influences on Kenneth Hutchinson? He'd now been more or less involved with the world of sexually aberrant behavior since 1970, or thereabouts. Twelve years. Though he hadn't laid a hand on a whip or leather cuff in the intervening time between Vanessa and Starsky, he'd certainly thought about it. Ventured once or twice into dark, tempting clubs, just after Vanessa left him, but really done nothing else until Starsky's provocative questions about Carlysle had lured him back in. Twelve years against Kirk's twenty plus. Had longevity made the other man worse? Had he crouched inside that kinky palace, alone with his warped thoughts, getting sicker and more perverted with each passing year because no one had ever stopped him? Dobey's files of Kirk's past arrests had been a frustrating read, at best. Why, or how, had he managed to operate for so long without censure? In a word; money.

Hutch shivered, trying to negotiate the maze his thoughts had followed. He was so frightened of turning into the monster Kirk had become that he began to dredge up each and every memory spent in the scene, to trace back his own kinks to the source.

To be truthful, while Vanessa had certainly given him an outlet, he'd been interested in rougher, nastier sex from the get-go. Not torture or cruelty, but a certain amount of wildness, a release from his strict and formal upbringing. The first girl he'd ever had sex with had been a screamer--a concept so liberating Hutch had wanted to make her scream all the louder. He'd loved the uninhibited sound rising from her guts when he rode her hard, and she had, too. They'd bridged the gulf between high school and college in sexual abandon, going at it wherever, and when ever possible. The shore at the lake, behind her father's stables, in Hutch's '55 Chevy. Glorious, riotous sex that had rocked his world and altered his perceptions.

After that, he'd had no boundaries when it came to sex. Vanessa wanted to be tied up? No problem. She wanted to tie him up, even whip him? Hutch hadn't liked that as much as tying her up, but he'd have done anything to please her. Except that, in the end, pleasing her got harder and harder until, even in the bedroom--their sexual playground--she began to be displeased, and then downright mean. The beginning of the end was the day she took a knife to his lower back to mark her initials there. He still had the downstroke of her 'V' as a permanent reminder of Vanessa Nancy Townsend Hutchinson. He'd knocked her off his back, shocked and horrified to see the bruise that blossomed on her face when she hit the floor. They'd never done anything kinky again, and Vanessa had packed up her things and moved out a few weeks later.

So what had made the prospect of doing those things with Starsky so seductive? He'd barely given it a moment's thought before diving right into the treacherous waters. In spite of everything, so far they'd had a fantastic time. Starsky rarely protested about anything Hutch brought into the arena, and they'd slipped into their roles as dominant and submissive with such ease it was as if they'd been waiting for just such an opportunity all their lives. In every way that he and Vanessa had been bad for each other--competing for who was on top and what kink to act out first; he and Starsky complemented each other. They balanced each other, each taking his part in the session play with serious intent, and yet amorous joy, taking the sex, and the play, to an all time high.

He wasn't Kirk. They were two people with similar, but by no means the same, interests. With a sigh of relief, Hutch became aware of an elbow poking into his ribs, and bright blue eyes staring at him with obvious concern.

"I guess I spaced, huh?" Hutch took a shaky breath, accepting the mug of tea Starsky pressed into his hands. He took a sip, but the brew was still boiling hot. "Y-you should add some lemon and honey to yours, for your throat," Hutch said, letting the serenity of the pretty blue and white kitchen work its magic on his frazzled nerves.

Grinning, Starsky pointed to the lemon slices and jar of clover honey on the countertop. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, blowing over the surface of his tea cup.

Embarrassed that he'd been standing in the middle of the kitchen completely oblivious to his surroundings, Hutch scurried around getting something to eat. The way Starsky's throat must feel, most of what they had in the freezer was out of the question.
He thought about whipping up a nice cool protein shake, but knew without being told what Starsky would think of that. Hutch finally decided to warm up some pea soup. He could have croutons with his, and maybe Starsky could soak some softer bread in his soup.

"Hey." Starsky croaked after drinking some tea.

"No more talking," Hutch said mildly, and then added in a sterner voice. "And that's an order."

Starsky's delighted smile made the room all the brighter, and Hutch responded immediately, surprised to feel himself growing hard in an instant. Damn, it was amazing what an effect Starsky had on him after all these years.

He turned back to the stove to rescue the soup before it bubbled over the side of the pan, only to hear Starsky pad off down the hall. Just as Hutch was serving up the meal, Starsky returned, completely nude except for the shining silver chain locked around his neck. Without clothes to half shield them, the colorful bruises on his slender throat were all the more gruesome.

"Starsky?" Hutch asked, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't answer back. "You want to play, tonight? On a work night?"

Starsky nodded solemnly, then knelt at Hutch's feet with his head bowed. Something clutched around his heart, and for a moment Hutch was overcome with emotion. "Oh, fuck, Starsk, today scared me to the core."

There was no need to elaborate, they both knew exactly what he meant. Starsky rose with the grace of Baryshnikov, wrapping his arms possessively around Hutch. Drained, Hutch let himself be cosseted, melting into the embrace until he wasn't sure whether he could even stand on his own. Somehow they made it down to the floor again, Hutch still wrapped protectively in the arms of his lover. Words were not necessary. Starsky accepted Hutch, with all his real, or imagined, imperfections.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Unable to utter a single, recognizable word for two solid days, Starsky still couldn't stand the thought of letting Hutch go into Metro without him, so he eschewed any sick leave. He didn't really feel sick, anyway, just achy, sore, and infuriatingly mute. Besides, he was worried about his partner. Hutch was in a very vulnerable place. Starsky was fully aware that despite having cleared the air, Hutch was still grappling with his self image as a dominant, and Starsky didn't want to be far from away if he had another existential breakdown like the one in the kitchen.

Between the dealing with the D.A.'s office and fending off reporters trying to get even more juicy scoops on the most recent sex scandal to hit Southern California, both Starsky and Hutch spent long hours working on the case against Kirk. In deference to Starsky's enforced speechlessness, the D.A. allowed him to write out the answers to all their questions, which let him rest his swollen throat, but gave him writer’s cramp.

The purulent details of Kirk's history splashed across the headlines of every reputable newspaper and tabloid in the country. He had been a generous benefactor to many charitable groups, visible at the symphony and opera, and a friend to the current mayor of Bay City, Jonas Markham. Now, all those organizations had to back pedal and release statements that they never knew about his sordid life, that any contributions would no longer be accepted in his name.

"Blah, blah, blah," Hutch tossed a newspaper down on the coffee table, gulping the last of his morning coffee. "Mayor Markham never was the brightest bulb on earth, but standing staunchly beside his old friend in…" He gestured at the article on the front page, " And I quote his honor, 'this time of emotional strife and turmoil' end quote, is asinine."

"I didn't vote for him," Starsky responded, his voice still as scratchy as sandpaper, but much improved. Nearly a week had passed since his near-fatal strangulation. His throat no longer hurt enough to use the nasty tasting spray Dr. Davies had prescribed, and Starsky figured in another day he'd sound more like his old self.

"Neither did I," Hutch harrumphed.

"You finished with breakfast?" Starsky asked, slinging a dishtowel around his neck before starting in on the dishes.

"Yep." Hutch stared moodily off through the front window. Starsky leaned against the back of the couch, trying to visualize what exactly Hutch was so focused on, but realized there was nothing. The front lawn, with its white pedestal bird bath, looked exactly as it usually did. Birds were splashing in the water, creating rainbow sparkles in the brilliant sunlight.

"You're brooding," Starsky accused, smacking Hutch on the back of the head with the towel. He retrieved the coffee cup and carried it back into the kitchen to dump in the sink full of sudsy water.

"Am not," Hutch said grumpily. "I'm going over the case in my head."

"Like I said, brooding."

"He claims Lily committed suicide, that he didn't kill her," Hutch blurted out. Starsky was fully aware of the pertinent facts, but he let Hutch ruminate. "There were pictures of her, of all those girls, decades worth…What if Lily wasn't the first? What if he abused other girls until they died, took them down to the beach and just tossed them into the surf?"

"Caress recognized a few of them, maybe she can recruit a few more old timers to look at the pictures," Starsky said softly, once again feeling the pang of sorrow for so many ruined lives. The pictures had been difficult to sort through. Dozens of snapshots of naked girls, bound in various positions, their eyes either bright with tears or dulled by pain and suffering. Many were masked in front of the camera, but enough weren't to make identification possible of at least ten of them. There had been two pictures of an achingly young Jeanne Tatsumi, her a hair a river of black silk which just covered her cuffed hands. The girls in the older pictures wore regular dog type slave collars, only the most recent ones, which included Lily and Torry, wore smooth silver bands around their necks. "So we can tell their families."

"How are we going to tell their families?" Hutch mourned. "Sir, your daughter died at the hands of a sexual predator who kept her prisoner in the basement of his house--at least we think so, since we have no body and precious few clues except for this fine photo you might want to keep as a momento. How the hell do we tell them that?" His voice rose in timbre, anger vibrating like thunder rumbling just before a storm.

Starsky didn't say anything. Sometimes it was necessary to let Hutch rage, to get the poison out of his system. Starsky had weathered many a storm, standing just out of range of the turmoil. There were times when he egged Hutch on, even argued just to get the volcano to erupt, but not today, mostly because he felt exactly the same way as his partner, but perhaps his injury had given him a different perspective. He was just glad they'd gotten any of the girls out alive. Magenta and Torry were finding the help they needed. It was his job to help Hutch. He swished cups through soap suds, judging when it was safe to put in his opinion without being snapped at. "We tell 'em somebody cared enough to find out what happened."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed, deflating.

Starsky didn't like it any better than Hutch did, it made him sick, to be truthful. But, while he always wanted his little corner of the BDSM world unsullied by such wickedness, he had stopped being surprised at the level of degradation some people could ascend to. Kirk was a sick, perverted man, but he was by no means unique, and that was the saddest fact of all.

"Hutch," Starsky dried his hands carefully, folding the dish towel neatly before walking out of the kitchen. He wasn't sure why, in retrospect, but it just seemed the proper thing to do. "I want to wear your mark." He didn't kneel down, although a part of him wanted to. Instead, he sat down in the easy chair to Hutch's right, putting both of them on the same level.

"You do," Hutch said. "Three across the butt."

"They faded. I need to feel them fresh."

"Starsky," Hutch wheedled, and Starsky could hear the self doubt in his voice. "I'm not sure I can anymore."

"Why not? You whaled me good last Friday. Well, more than a week has passed and it's time again."

"I'll hurt you."

"That never stopped you before."

"It should have."

"If I had wanted it to, I could have stopped it," Starsky said decisively. "You gave me power, Hutch. A safeword. I gave you power, because I chose not to use it. I chose to let you blister my ass. So, I'm giving you an out--a safeword for the master. If you aren't interested in what I have to offer today, just say…Venice."

Starsky held his breath, never shifting his gaze from his lover's face. Hutch was scared, there was no doubt about it. His world had been shaken that week, but the foundation was still solid. Starsky was willing make do with vanilla sex for the rest of his life, sublimating his taste for chocolate, but he had to put up a fight for the headier sweet, first.

The muscles in Hutch's jaw tensed, giving him a hard, stern expression that would have sent a chill of fear through most people, but not Starsky. Secretly, he was thrilled. "And what if I don't say it?" Hutch asked.

"Then, I go find the crop," Starsky answered.

"I think you should," Hutch agreed with utter calm. "And you've got too many clothes on."

"Yes, sir." Starsky scurried out, pleased that his plan had succeeded, even if it meant that he'd have trouble sitting for a day or two. He didn't want to analyze what had just happened, because to do so would admit that he had just willingly asked to be beaten. Even so, the questions crowded his brain as he stripped off the boxers and t-shirt he'd worn to bed the night before.

What did that say about him? That he was a masochist? Starsky wasn't entirely certain of the dictionary definition of the word, but he was pretty sure he didn't fit. He didn't actually enjoy the pain. He could, in the right frame of mind, get off on it, because--and this was the big qualifier--Hutch gave it to him. Sometimes the power that he allowed Hutch to hold over him was an amazingly seductive aphrodisiac, When Hutch used that low sexy voice on him, the words lashing across him with whip-like accuracy, it was foreplay of a whole different stripe, pun intended.

There were so many shifting layers to pain play, and its eviler twin, punishment. Pain always hurt, but it also could be so good, so perfect, like the first few seconds when scratching an itch just before the skin was raw and bleeding. It felt so incredibly good that you didn't notice the pain until you stopped itching. When Hutch whispered to him in that hard, commanding, oh-so-sensual voice right before he slammed the cane down on Starsky's backside, it hurt but it was so sweet. Starsky was always ready for sex after he'd been swatted. But did that mean he'd been programmed, like an abused Pavlov's dog, or…he shook his head to dispel all the conflicting and confusing emotions.

In the end, it came down to one thing, he was proud to wear Hutch's mark, and eager to get the caning over with, all at the same time. Letting his hand hover for a second over the handle to the armoire holding all their scene toys, Starsky took a deep breath and opened the door. The crop lay in its usual spot, a long thin wand of leather with a small triangular flap at one end. It looked like it would hurt--designed precisely for its intended function. He picked it up as if weighing it in his left hand, then knelt, holding the crop perfectly balanced on his open palm.

Hutch left him waiting there so long Starsky began to sweat, the tension mounting. He didn't have to do this! He didn't have to be driven crazy from the stress of waiting for those three red welts across his butt cheeks. What the hell was taking Hutch so long, and why had Starsky even started this in the first place? Being cuffed to the bed--now that would have been a pleasurable Saturday morning.

And dammit, he'd forgotten until just then that they had to go into work on Sunday because of the Bay to Beach marathon being run right through Bay City. It was the first running of what was hoped to be an annual event, bringing lots of revenue and prestige to their city, and Mayor Markham wasn't about to let the current controversy over what he might be doing in his private life ruin the race. He wanted all patrol officers out in force, and detectives standing by in case of any violence from protesters or purulent rabble-rousers. So Starsky would not have his customary couple of days to recuperate from a marking.

Having just about talked himself out of the deed, Starsky closed his fist around the crop, preparing to put it back. He'd reason with Hutch--it had been his idea, after all, it would be easy to talk Hutch out of it.

"Where are you going?" Hutch's quiet, deep voice stopped Starsky cold.

"I just remembered--we got duty tomorrow…" Starsky's protest petered out when he saw Hutch's transformation. From where Starsky knelt Hutch looked ten feet tall, all in smooth tan leather and cream silk. He'd replaced the ratty clothes he'd worn to bed with the perfect attire of a master. Starsky could almost imagine him speaking in a German accent, tapping the crop against shining black jack boots as he interrogated his prisoner. That was a fantasy for another day.

Swallowing tightly, Starsky stiffened, presenting the crop again. "We have to go in because of the race," he said with faltering resolve.

"You should have thought about that before," Hutch answered. There was no anger or reproach in his tone, just a simple stating of facts. "You were right, the marks on your butt have faded, and I like to see able to see my handiwork."

"I was afraid you'd see it that way."

"So, bend over and prepare yourself for the inevitable. And I want you to count out the swats."

"You're not going to tie me?" Starsky asked, fully ready to accept his due, but it was unusual for Hutch to expect him to just stand there and take it.

"You asked for it," Hutch said simply. "Bend over, hands on the end of the bed. If you move away or try to prevent me from finishing then you'll just earn a demerit--make that two." He gave just a hint of a smile, obviously getting into his role with relish.

"Two?" Starsky protested, nearly melting with arousal under Hutch's uncompromising gaze, especially with that devious little smile. "Okay, okay!" He arranged himself as instructed, then craned his neck to see what Hutch was doing with the little object of torture. "Can I ask a question first?"

Hutch slid his fingers down the thin crop. "Just broke one of the fundamental rules, no eye contact. Head down, eyes forward."

Starsky quickly complied, inwardly swearing at his lapse. He stared down at the red velvet covered bed, gripped the metal railing and prepared himself for the sting of the crop.

"What's the question?" Hutch asked, and then with shocking suddenness, brought the crop down. Starsky exhaled on impact, his breath coming out in an anguished cry, but he didn't move a muscle.

"One!" Starsky counted. "H-how many demerits? From the other night?"

"Between Friday and Saturday, you had five. And tonight, another makes six." He said it in such a conversational way Starsky was almost unprepared for the second snap of the crop against his already burning butt.

"Two!" Starsky ground out, wanting this over with ASAP. Only his cock was growing larger with every swat because he knew what was coming afterwards.

The third one was the worst, so close against the second Starsky could feel the fire leap from one welt and back again, and he wailed. Hutch gathered him in, arms closing around him and turning him around so Starsky could cry against the softness of his silk shirt.

"Sweet slave prince, I adore you," Hutch murmured. "So pretty with those lines crossing your white butt like railroad tracks to my heart."

"Railroad tracks only have two lines." Starsky snuffled, shifting his weight, but that didn't help, he still felt like he'd backed into a barbecue grill. Despite that, he was bursting with pride, having remained perfectly still through the entire ordeal. If this was his reward, he'd gladly take a few more welts.

"Picky, picky…" Hutch kissed him on the lips. "You know what would be cool?"

"Hmm?" Starsky didn't want to talk, he wanted to kiss.

"I bet I could figure out a way to mark you so that the lines made an 'H'."

"Yeah?" Starsky laughed slightly, his breath mingling with Hutch's since their mouths were still touching "That'd be tricky."

"I'm going to have to do a lot of practice," Hutch went back to what he was already good at, and Starsky enjoyed his prowess, deliriously happy. Hutch was a perfectionist, any practice in placing the strokes of the 'H' just so would require long mornings that ended just like this one. And Starsky had no problem with that at all.

"I'm going to go book the trip to St. Marquis," Hutch said after a long time. They'd ended up sprawled together on the bed with Starsky bending over his master's cock in fervent worship. Hutch had orgasmed not once, but twice, in the last hour, but kept Starsky on the brink, refusing to allow him to come. Starsky didn't really mind, since he was fully aware that at some point during the day he'd get the privilege, and the sweet ache of his hard-on was just a constant reminder of how easily aroused he was by slavery.

"When are we going?"

"I'll arrange all the details, and work out the vacation schedule with Dobey," Hutch regarded Starsky's erection with amusement. "That way it'll be a surprise. That thing looks ready to blast off."

"Just about."

"Too bad." Hutch scrambled off the bed, and came back with a black band with a snap on each end. He fastened it around Starsky's length just tightly enough to make him squirm. "I've got to make some phone calls, stay here until I'm done, and I'll get back to you on this." He tapped the very tip with a lecherous grin.

"Thanks a lot!" Starsky called out as Hutch gathered up his leather pants to go make the necessary plans. His butt pulsed with pain, but Starsky hardly noticed. In fact the cock ring was more of an annoyance, because he wanted relief now. But in a strange way, he enjoyed putting off his own pleasure for Hutch. Hutch did a hell of a lot for him--being the master took a great deal of work and planning. He must think about sex with Starsky as often as Starsky thought about sex with Hutch.

Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, Starsky let his hand hover an inch or so above his captured organ, feeling the heat emanating off his skin. It would be so easy to unsnap that tiny piece of leather, but he never gave it a moment of consideration. Starsky respected and honored Hutch as his master, but at the same time, he never felt one minute of real captivity. This was a game, and he wanted to play by the rules. If Hutch ever changed into a villain like Kirk, Starsky wouldn't play anymore, but he couldn't conceive of that happening.

Hutch returned looking pleased with his work, and set out to make Starsky just as pleased. Not at all a difficulty by Starsky's way of thinking, and they whiled away the morning in joyful abandon.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"You must know a lot more about this than you're telling," a voice said into Starsky's ear as the Sunday paper slapped onto his desk.

"Huh?" Starsky nearly spilled his coffee on the printed page, turning to see who had delivered the Times so abruptly.

"You and Hutch--you got the inside scoop." Red Neilson, one of Starsky's least favorite vice detectives reeked of cigarette smoke, his beefy face clashing with a bright red sports shirt.

"We arrested him," Starsky agreed, scanning the article about James Kirk. It was one of those in-depth reports, chronicling the man's entire sordid life from battered childhood in a reform school to early marriage, with comments from the first girl he'd abused, his teenage bride in the early sixties. She called him a 'truly vile human being'.

"So why didn't we get the case?" Red persisted. "I know my vice, and he's got 'em all. What gave you two the upper hand, here?"

"Uh--we had an ID of a body we fished out of the drink, you know that," Starsky explained, his heart rate accelerating despite his intentions to stay calm. Was Neilson implying something about he and Hutch? How much did the man suspect? "A woman we've worked with before asked us to investigate, since she knew the girl."

"Yeah, the comely Caress--bitch goddess of the beat-me-up set," Red sneered.

"Have some respect," Starsky said with his anger held firmly in check.

"For a whore? C'mon, Starsky!" Red leered. "You and Hutch visit the pretty little Jap? Let her slap your dong around…"

"Shut your foul mouth, Neilson, or I'll report you to IA." Hutch's authoritarian voice would have sent Starsky straight to his knees had they been in the session chamber, but in the detective squadroom it just fortified his anger.

"With all the other complaints against you, you'd be writing traffic tickets by Monday," Starsky finished the threat. "Or doesn't IA know you diddle the underage hookers in the back of your '79 Chevy, license plate…"

"You got no proof," Neilson backed down, his face contorted in fury.

"Would you like some?" Hutch loomed over the man, crowding into the tight circle of space around Starsky's chair. Starsky could smell the testosterone scented rage stinking up the room, and was only too glad Hutch's wrath wasn't directed in his direction.

"Hey, the race is going by the window, on One hundredth…" Uniformed Officer Angie Sommers burst into the room, her announcement trickling to a halt at the sight of the three men.

"That's my paper." Neilson snatched up the Times and clomped out, pushing past Angie so roughly he almost knocked her down.

"Get my sandwich?" Starsky asked with forced cheerfulness, because of Angie.

"Only had tuna, or ham and cheese," Hutch indicated the wrapped sandwiches he'd dropped on the communal desk when he'd walked in. He put held out the tuna to the clearly stunned woman. "Want to share, Angie? There's a big bin full in the cafeteria. The cook left them, not fresh, but somewhat edible."

"Oh, thanks." She blushed in confusion. "I just--Andres Bellaterra is running, he's won races all over, Boston Marathon, in Spain, all over. I just wanted to…"

"Hey." Starsky gestured for her to look out the small windows on the opposite side of the room. There was a legion of brightly shirted runners jogging by in the street below, with one dark haired man out in front. A gaggle of athletes were clustered closely behind him, but he was certainly in the lead. "I think I can see him. That Bellaterra?"

"Yeah." Angie grinned. "He's amazing."

"Go down there," Hutch encouraged. "Get a better look, especially if you go around on the garage side of the building. They're turning the corner now."

"There's nobody over in robbery." Angie waved a hand back the way she'd come.

"Ya think anybody'd be bold enough to rob the robbery division?" Starsky fingered an imaginary cigar a la Groucho Marx.

"We're here, hurry before they run by," Hutch urged.

Angie took off at a sprint that could have put her up near the front of the race.

"Damn," Starsky released a long drawn out breath, collapsing into a chair without a second look at the runners, even the long legged girls in tiny nylon shorts.

"Was Neilson just blowing steam or does he know something?" Hutch asked seriously.

"He was fishing."

"And using us for bait."

"He's vice, Hutch, he could look under a couple rocks…"

"Starsky, we've maintained a low profile--have we ever done anything really overt in public?"

"Groping in a gazebo behind L'Etoile," Starsky said with a rueful grin.

"Other than that."

"Okay." Starsky held up his hands in concession. The few times they'd played outside of private residences, they'd been pretty circumspect, although the time Hutch 'arrested' him at a bar came the closest to obvious coupling. "But a paper trail, money, that kind of thing?"

"Starsky, I've been careful," Hutch said tightly.

"You're cute, I'm careful," Starsky reminded softly, and wanted to kiss him right then and there, but not in so public a place.

The increased police presence at the race apparently had the right effect, because there weren't any unusual problems and only the most common of arrests; pickpockets, muggers and drunks. The day passed fairly slowly for Starsky and Hutch stuck manning the desk. Neilson never returned to continue his threats, and Angie got Bellaterra's autograph when he toured through Metro later that day to thank BC's finest on their exemplary work.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Starsky, as usual when meeting Lisa for lunch, ordered ahead of time. The overworked assistant D.A. always seemed to have little time for such mundane niceties as eating, so she would leave a message earlier in the day with her choice, and usually arrived just as it was being served. He grimaced slightly, giving the nose-pierced waiter the request for endive salad and unsweetened ice tea, wondering privately how Lisa could palate such stuff. He himself was indulging in a nice thick bowl of minestrone accompanied by a Reuben sandwich.

Taking a swig of his own highly sweetened ice tea, Starsky looked up in time to see Lisa come through the door of the Leather Jungle café, her shiny leather briefcase swinging from her hand like a pendulum. It didn't matter where they went, all eyes in the place followed the pretty woman. Lisa wasn't a knockout by Farrah Fawcett standards--she had a more understated beauty with her chin length perfectly cut brown hair, lively brown eyes and incredible figure. That, Starsky was startled to realize, was still augmented by a tightly laced corset which lent her the curves of a slimmer Mae West. The waiter trotted behind Lisa, his nose ring bobbing, to hold her chair out for her. He looked at her with such adoring worship Starsky half expected him to kneel before her. Odd, since both he and Lisa were slaves, as were all the wait staff in the cafe.

"Been waiting long?" Lisa asked when her sycophant had gone off in search of her meal.

"Just observing the domesticated slave in its natural habitat," Starsky said dryly.
"Who's he?"

"Jacko? Wouldn't hurt a fly. I helped him with a little legal matter between him and his former master, and it's like he's indentured himself to me." She rolled her eyes, shifting slightly in her seat in a way Starsky intimately recognized.

"You're corseted AND plugged?" he asked, only lowering his voice slightly. After all, they were in a BDSM restaurant. While non-participants ate there, it was entirely possible that roughly half the lunchtime crowd were in the scene. "Kind of extreme for a work day. And I thought you'd be done with the tight lacing by now."

Jacko's reappearance postponed her answer while he fussed with their plates and offered extra pepper, but eventually he left, practically prostrating himself in the presence of his goddess.

"I did, too," Lisa sighed regretfully, slicing her endives into small pieces before spearing some on her fork. "But getting stabbed put a--can I say hole in our plans without making it sound like a bad pun?"

"I always like a good pun."

"Who's to say whether it's good or not?"

"Definitely its master--because it might require some pun-ishment."

"That was bad," Lisa opined with a groan, a hand against her rigidly encased rib cage, almost panting with the effort to laugh. "We couldn't enter the event Caress wanted to because I was laid up, and Dr. Davies wouldn't let me wear a corset then. So, it's back to the training table--and the morning torture when she laces me in."

Since Lisa didn't elaborate on why she was also obviously wearing a butt plug, Starsky didn't ask. Some things were better left between a slave and her mistress. He found Lisa's life astonishing, and amazingly complicated, not to mention arduous. He knew, because she had told him, that she was often smacked on days before she had to talk to clients or appear in court. She frequently wore some sort of fetish ware or corsetry under her neat lawyer skirts and jackets, and sometimes had to endure harsh strictures placed on her by her mistress without any kind of complaint allowed. Lisa had absolutely no say in her life, both private or public, except where it pertained to her law career. She was a lifetime slave, and appeared to be extremely content with her lot. Starsky had known her in her 'former' life and could attest to her current happiness.

"Still don't know how you can eat that rabbit food." Starsky shook his head, taking a bite from his gooey, cheesy sandwich.

"Let me just sniff the corned beef." Lisa leaned forward, smelling the hearty aroma. "It's love, Dave."

"You and the Reuben? Will never last."

"No, I mean, I do it for love." She patted her armored side with a rueful smile. "Caress is my everything." Lisa shook her sleek hair as if banishing the sentimental moment. "And she's taking me to Europe for two months. The tight lacing event is in Amsterdam, and then we're going to be touring all around, Paris, Munich, Venice."

"Hutch told me The Estate has places all over--but he didn't mention Holland."

"It's not through The Estate." She broke a piece of bread in half and just ate the soft middle out of it with tiny bites to savor every mouthful. "The scene is very big in Europe--this is being held at a major hotel just like any other convention."

"Unbelievable." Starsky wolfed down some of his Reuben, trying to imagine a place where people could practice their BDSM with such openness. "That's terrific."

"Back to reality, you've still got bruises on your neck."

"Fading," Starsky dismissed her concerns. It had been well over a week since the incident. "The papers say you keep finding even more stuff on the slimeball--is the mayor going to go down, too?"

"Mayor Markham is well protected politically, and from all that we can uncover, just a social friend, didn't--um--participate in Kirk's particular fun and games. Very much a gray area unless we can locate a girl who will implicate him, and I sincerely doubt we will." She sipped her ice tea, eyeing the bread crust. "Other key members of the city government may not be so lucky."

"School board?" Starsky asked, pretending innocence. He'd once found the name of the head of that board, Peter Delancy, on a client list belonging to the late dominatrix Carlysle.

"No comment," Lisa said prissily, but her dimple winked at him. She wiped her hands with the napkin, pushing her plate away. "Anyway, right now, Kirk is far more our focus than the mayor. And luckily, it's not an election year."

"What's your personal opinion of the Mr. Mayor's involvement?"

"I cannot answer that, Officer, on the grounds that I may perjure myself," Lisa answered with such a look of pure virginity that Starsky almost had a hard time believing that she knew anything about whips, handcuffs and all the BDSM paraphernalia.

"Gonna be that way about it?"

"'Fraid so."

Getting down to the business part of the luncheon, Starsky asked, "Any more ID's from the pictures?"

"Yes." A brief look of sadness crossed her face. "This is just agonizing. Caress teamed up with an old friend who's out of the scene, and between them they've recognized several girls--here's the list." She pulled a printed sheet out of her briefcase, sliding it across the table to him.

"Three more--that's good." Starsky scanned the list. Added under the names Torry Jaynes, Lily Evanovich and Margreta Kirk were Elizabeth Newcastle, Sheila Hammond and Deshan Bando. That made six girls they knew Kirk had abused, plus Caress. But there were still dozens of photographs, with at least three more girls who could be seen well enough to be recognized. The poor girl he'd found, dubbed Leathergirl by the press, still had no real name. "Thanks. We've finally got an okay from the doctors to interview Magenta--uh, Margreta and Torry. Maybe they can shed some light. And I'll start tracking down the families for the other girls."

"Are you sure they're all dead?"

"No, not at this point." Starsky lapped up the final spoonful of soup. "And so far, nobody's come out of the woodwork claiming to be one of the lost girls."

"That's the problem--if any of these girls did break free of the scene, they aren't going to want husbands and families to know about their pasts."

"Yep, in a nutshell." Starsky studied her calm, self assured demeanor for a long moment. "What about you? Your family know?"

"Oh, thin ice time here." She unconsciously rubbed her corseted side.

"Sorry, haven't told my mom or brother, either."

"My sister does know--she was fascinated, but then she's a clinical psychologist specializing in sexual addictions."

"What a duo you two must make!"

"Hmm, yes." Lisa rolled her eyes. "Nobody else. My dad is dead and Mom's pretty old, so she thinks Jeanne is my housemate."

"I gotta a housemate, too," Starsky said straight-faced.

"So, are you ready for the meeting this afternoon?"

"Y'know, I'm beginning to wonder if this is such a good idea," Starsky grimaced. "Bad enough that I come here. Vice was nosing around the other day."

"With specifics?"

"No, just innuendo. 'Cause we were asked to take this case."

"For good reason, you're good cops." Lisa pursed her lips, looking very legal. "If he gives you any trouble, I can always send trouble his way."

"I believe you could," Starsky agreed with a grin.

As the lunch crowd drifted out of the café, Jacko pushed two large tables together in the back of the room, and placed a sign in the doorway announcing a private gathering from 2-3 p.m. Just before the appointed hour, a few people began to show up, exchanging greetings with Jacko and the cashier. Starsky had seen her every time he'd ever come in, a girl with matte black hair, pierced nipples showing through her sheer silk blouse and a black leather collar around her neck.

"That's Tarte," Lisa explained as she and Starsky moved from their lunch table over to the one where the other slaves were seated. "She's Rex's slave."

"That tiny thing with that huge guy?" Starsky tried to imagine the two of them together. Quite a stretch, literally.

"Remember, this is first names only--even pseudonyms, if you want. We respect each other's privacy above all else, and only discuss topics related to slavery. If you feel uncomfortable, don't speak up." Lisa said as they approached the group.

"What about Jacko?"

"He's a free agent right now, cruising the clubs, because of the situation with his former master, which I of course, can't go into. But Rex lets him stay with them, and he moons after me."

"Most men do, darlin'," Starsky drawled in her ear.

Jacko put out a bowl of tortilla chips and some salsa, encouraging those assembled to take some. Starsky was interested to note that a couple of the slaves arriving did need that tacit permission before munching. He sincerely hoped he never got that dependent, or the whole slave thing was off.

"We'll start the meeting now," a tall chocolate skinned woman with a tiny cap of brown curls called out to the last of the stragglers. "I see we have two new friends, so we'll go around and give a quick introduction. Just first names and only as much personal information as you feel comfortable giving. I'm Adrianna. I've been a slave for ten years, but only the last five with my current master, Edward. I work a full time job, have a son with Edward, and to all the uninitiated, we look like a regular husband and wife. But slavery is the very essence of my soul, and most days I long for those weekends when my mother takes our son, and we have time to ourselves."

Starsky swallowed the butterflies crowding his throat, relaxing slightly. He could identify with everything Adrianna had said--except for the part about having a child. He couldn't imagine bringing a child into the complicated dynamic in which he was already enmeshed.

Others around the table introduced themselves. Jacko gave a amusing version of his last go-round at the club Rawhide, and his hopes for a man he'd met there. Tarte explained that she had bonded herself to Rex over two years before, and he branded her with a hot iron each year for their anniversary. They were both gearing up for a third ceremony in two months time, and he was allowing her to choose the design for the first time. This statement brought murmurs of approval from the seven people around the table. Starsky's butterflies were back, and he was glad he'd settled on a tattoo of his own volition.

Clara, the other newcomer, a waif-like creature who spoke in a monotone, gave only her name. Dobbs was the epitome of a British butler, austere, stiff backed and straight faced, but he had a wicked sense of humor. He'd met his master on a cruise to Jamaica. They'd disembarked ship in Florida a couple, and had never been apart since. It was coming up on eight years of blissful submission.

Lisa greeted the group as an old friend, detailing her recuperation from the stabbing that had kept her 'on a short leash' for a few months. The group laughed at this BDSM joke, and commented on her corseting.

"On weekends, when she gives me the full treatment, I'm laced until I'm panting like Scarlett O'Hara before the ball. She has me to seventeen and a half inches, half an inch to the goal," she boasted, patting her rigidly boned torso. "But I've got the feeling Caress wants to try for a whole inch."

"Sixteen and a half?" Starsky blurted out, the first thing he'd said aloud. "That's impossible."

"No," Clara said in her tiny voice. "Just hard to bear. I was 16 inches once, before I gained weight."

Starsky couldn't imagine exactly where she'd gained weight, although on her, sixteen inches was within the realm of imagination. Clara was tiny, and thin. Lisa, while certainly a long way from chunky, had a naturally larger rib cage and pelvis. On her sixteen inches would give the impression she was attached together in the middle with a slender band. How would she breathe?

"Do me a favor," Lisa teased good naturedly. "Don't tell my mistress."

Clara blushed prettily and ducked her head.

"Well, we haven't heard from the last of our group." Adrianna took a tortilla chip, dipping it into the spicy salsa, waiting.

"Must be me." Starsky plunged in, feeling welcomed by the friendly faces around him. Far from being a group of abused, downtrodden passives, these people were lively, happy and appeared well adjusted. Most of them held down jobs and lives outside their slavedom, with no signs that they lived in fear of their masters. He almost wished he could find some middle-America prude up on his high horse over the moral turpitude of such sinful ways of life, and introduce him to Adrianna, Dobbs, and the rest.

"I'm Davey." Hutch had never called him that, so the name seemed safe, his nom de slave, as it were. "I haven't been involved a long time, but…my master and me, we recently started living together and signed a contract…for a year, with Lisa's help. It's been…fantastic, scary, and a real eye opener." He finished a little breathlessly, just the thought of Hutch renewing his butterflies. Only these had tiny black leather collars and were preparing to get whipped. He almost grinned at the fantasy.

"Had you ever done anything like this before?" Adrianna prompted.

"No, but my master had, and he knew exactly what buttons to push, I guess you could say. I couldn't refuse."

"Amen, to that, brother," Jacko agreed.

"I'm glad to hear that you had Lisa help with the formalities," Adrianna said. "Signing a contract of any sort is an important step, and not one to take lightly. We are incredibly fortunate not only to have Lisa in our midst, but also Bruno, who isn't here today. He has been in the scene for years, with much knowledge of the intricacies of master and slave relationships. Both he and Lisa will be presenting a half day seminar on legal and ethical issues in BDSM in one month, on the third weekend in June. I urge you all to attend, if you are allowed. There will be a MAST party that evening, with music by the Feudal Vassals, and a catered buffet. Afterwards, a charity slave auction and a whipping display. "

"Bruno is a psychiatrist," Lisa whispered. "It's going to be a fascinating afternoon."

Starsky nodded, still pondering the words 'if you're allowed'. He couldn't imagine being so restricted that he had to ask permission to go to a seminar, or even the grocery. What must it have been like for Torry Jaynes, chained in a dungeon of that cold, horrible house, waiting fearfully for Kirk to come and have his way with her? He mentally shook himself, locking up such thoughts. This was a time of discovery and joy, there was no place for the cruelty and nastiness of his day job.

The rest of the meeting passed amiably, with discussions on a wide range of subjects from how to clean certain sex toys to the illicit fun of finding ways to stage a scene in broad daylight so that passers by had no idea what was going on. Starsky left with Lisa, knowing that he'd be attending the meeting in June, whether he was allowed, or not. They walked across the parking lot behind Leather Jungle to their cars, parked coincidentally side by side.

"So, is this the big day?" Lisa asked, bright eyed, looking all the world like a teen-ager asking if her best friend was going to lose her virginity.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Starsky quipped. "I figured it was kinda fitting, my first MAST meeting on the same day I get tattooed for my master."

"Very cool," Lisa nodded her approval. "That was the first thing Caress did--I moved in with her two days after we met, and she marched me down to the tattoo place the next morning."

"The one on your back?"

"Yep, that was the first one. There's also a special--kind of secret one, up--well, where only Caress will ever see."

"Ow!" Starsky grimaced, imagining a needle invading the soft tissues of a woman's privates. "On your leg or…?"

"Partly on the thigh-groin area, the rest is on the labia. There's a little piercing there, too. It was really painful." Lisa hunched her shoulders up nearly to her ears as if remembering. "Caress held me the whole time. My legs were locked to an ankle spreader, but she held me in her lap, and talked to me the whole time. I cried, but it was truly a special day. I still think about it every time she touches me there." She smiled, a dreamy sort of thing that revealed so much of her adoration for her mistress. "Where's yours going to be?"

"I was going for the shoulder, but changed my mind. It's gonna be right here." Starsky patted his left flank, just above the hip bone, on the border between his abdomen and lower back.

"Where Hutch touches you when he's ready to go--I've seen him." Lisa glanced at her narrow, gold-linked bracelet watch, very fashionable, and a very discrete fetish accessory. Starsky bet that if he looked closely, he'd find a tiny lock on the back side. "Oops, gotta go, I have to get a deposition at four, and then I'm due home this evening. One of her clients went out of town, so there's an open night in the middle of the week. Pretty rare with the schedules Caress and I maintain--this could be heaven or hell, hard to tell right now!"

"Hell, if it's heaven, enjoy the ride, and if it's hell, you'll still be in heaven by the end."

"You're very bad." Lisa shook a finger at him, sliding into her low slung sports car. The slit of her narrow wool skirt gaped widely as she swung her legs in, giving Starsky a brief glimpse of incredible legs swathed in gossamer black silk stockings with old fashioned garters just above her knees. He winked, waving as she gunned the motor, driving the little MG out with a roar.

His appointment was for three forty five at the tattoo room in the very back of Leather Jungle. Starsky paused as he entered the sex emporium, taking in the overwhelming inventory. He was still awed by the immense variety of items offered for sale--so many things to enhance the joy of sex. A manikin set up near the door was decked out all in purple today--purple cuffs and eye mask, purple collar with white polka-dots, and a purple satin corset. Starsky shuddered, glad that Hutch stuck pretty much to the traditional colors of black and brown for the leather goods.

Strolling past the shoe area, Starsky watched a woman being fitted with the pointiest, most painful looking shoes he had ever seen in his life. They were basically like ballet pointe shoes, forcing the wearer's foot into a cramp inducing arch, so that she perched on the tops of her toes with only a pencil thin spike heel for balance. The woman had tears in her eyes when she stood, wobbling slightly, for her master's approval. Starsky moved on quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. Nearing the tattoo room, he took a deep breath, nervous, but glad, that the artist was someone he knew.

When Starsky called to make the appointment, he'd been surprised and happy to learn that a woman he and Hutch had known for years had lost the lease on her old parlor, and now rented a room from Leather Jungle. Rae was a big hearted woman with a perpetual cigarette hanging from one lip, and a wicked gleam in her eye. She'd provided them with the occasional tip on illegal activities from time to time, in exchange for some innocent flirting with Hutch, and a couple of Andrew Jacksons under the table. She'd always had a soft spot for Hutch, so there was no doubt that she'd make this tattoo extra special, because it was, ultimately, for him.

"Starsky." Rae called out, her voice warm and inviting, with a hint of mid-western twang. "Come into my parlor…"

"Said the spider to the fly," Starsky finished the verse. "Should I be worried?"

"Female spiders are the most dangerous," Rae laughed. "Now, you have to tell me all! When did you and that blond hunk get together?"

"After I was shot," Starsky settled into a small chair, looking around him at the walls covered with hundreds of tattoos. There were enough hearts aflame, wreaths of roses, all manner of weaponry, Mom written out in fancy script, girls in bikinis and palm trees to decorate every inch of skin.

Starsky gave Rae a short, edited version of his relationship with his partner, but not quite everything. No need to explain the significance of the design he'd selected, or exactly why he wanted to have a tattoo in the first place. All she knew was that it was sort of a surprise for Hutch.

Since Starsky had explained what he wanted over the phone, Rae had drawn up two different sketches for him to look at. Once he saw them, there was no question in his mind. The second illustration was perfect. Rae cleaned his skin, and applied the pattern onto his wet hip . She mixed tiny pots of pigment for her electric needle, and finally dipped the hub into the black to ink in the outline.

"Since this is over a bone, it may hurt a little more than over fatter areas," Rae explained, then chuckled, the cigarette hanging from her lip bobbing like a tiny firecracker. "'Course, you haven't got an ounce of fat."

"Not worried about it hurting," Starsky said, although that wasn't entirely true. Up until he'd parted from Lisa, he'd just been thinking about how much he wanted Hutch to like this, and how special it was for the both of them. The thought of a needle injecting permanent ink into his flesh had kind of gone by the wayside, but now it was back in force. He screwed up his courage, presenting a calm expression when Rae touched the softly humming needle to his hip.

Starsky was amazed to find that it didn't really hurt, at least not at first. He'd had far more painful procedures each and every day of his stay in the hospital during his convalescence from the shooting. Particularly IV sticks and arterial blood draws, which used to nearly reduce him to tears because the same areas on the wrist and hand had to be stuck so frequently. This was more of a vibrating sting, sort of like having sandpaper continually rubbed into one specific place. As Rae applied the detail to the tiny figures she'd inked in, the pain ratcheted slightly, but only twice did Starsky even grit his teeth. The whole thing was over so quickly he was amazed how easy it had been. And how beautifully the resulting image turned out.

"That's terrific!" Starsky craned his head to admire it.

"Turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself." Rae nodded, cocking her head to the side to examine it from every angle.

Starsky could only really see it well in a mirror, since it was slightly toward the back, but still on his hip. He had to raise his left arm up and peer downward, so that the image looked vaguely distorted.

"Not many guys would do this for their partners," Rae said absently, applying Vaseline and a gauze dressing. "Makes things more permanent, I'd think."

Yeah," Starsky agreed, pulling up his pants. He didn't add anything to Rae's comment, completely aware she was probing for more information. The brand new tattoo was a mild ache on his side, and he imagined Hutch's hand touching him there, when they were at work, and not in the scene. Their little secret, hidden under his jeans, a testimony of his devotion and love for Ken Hutchinson.

"I think I'd be proud of you, if I were him," Rae tapped her cigarette over the ash tray, letting loose a shower of tiny sparks. "Tell him to come on by, just as a consolation for ol' Rae who's still pining for that Viking Norseman."

"He found that picture he promised you, anyways," Starsky said. "Of the girl with a four masted ship on her chest."

"That would make for a bumpy ride." Rae cleaned up her instruments, wiping the work surface down with alcohol. "Probably make a man seasick."

"Takes a hearty sailor," Starsky winked at her. "But when the riggings taut, and the sails are full of wind, look out."

"You're a randy boy, aren't you?" She elbowed him, laughing. "Don't you miss the girls?"

"Nope, not when Hutch is around," Starsky said sincerely.

"You are in love." Rae smiled. "Nice to see. Now, don't go wrecking my art. Keep it out of the sun, rub on some lotion, or better yet, let your better half do it, and take showers for a few weeks until it heals."
"Yes, ma'am!"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Starsky could barely wait to reveal his surprise to Hutch, but he wanted to create just the right mood. With that in mind, he stopped in at the gourmet deli before going home, loading up on some finger foods. Small rounds of sourdough bread with sun dried tomato and basil, bacon wrapped around melon, stuffed mushrooms and crackers topped with salmon mousse or spicy chicken. All to put Hutch in the mood to get his hands all over Starsky.

Hutch arrived home shortly after Starsky did, having spent the day doing errands of his own. This often meant he'd been shopping for more fun ways to spend their time in the session chamber, but since Starsky had been in and around Leather Jungle, Hutch's usual favorite sex shop, that meant Hutch probably hadn't gone there. Thus Starsky was curious, but didn't press his partner for details. At least not right off the bat.

"I've got dinner," Starsky called. He'd changed into abbreviated cut offs and a tank top, because the weather was heating up. "Get comfortable, take a shower if you want, there's no rush."

"No?" Hutch greeted him with a kiss, snaking his arms around Starsky's waist. "I'm feeling horny, could be I want to rush."

"Yeah?"

"Could be I want to see a lot more of you," Hutch breathed into his ear, biting down on the pierced lobe and tonguing the diamond stud there.

"Not wearin' much," Starsky said, completely turned on when Hutch thrust his tongue inside Starsky's ear, then licked the curved edge.

"Still too much for me." Hutch possessively cupped his buttocks, pinching hard enough to hurt.

Starsky stiffened all over, panting, but kept still. Hutch tightened his hold on the left, pulling up a small fingerful of fleshy derriere, and giving it a tiny twist. The sharp sting set off little explosions of lust in Starsky, and he wanted to move, thrust into Hutch, do something rather than just take it, but he did, for his master.

"My slave looks a little neglected," Hutch whispered, rubbing the place he'd just abused. He grabbed the waistband of Starsky's shorts and pulled them down, letting them pool at Starsky's feet. Starsky still didn't move, except to raise his arms when Hutch skimmed the shirt off him. "You'd look even better in leather."

Starsky grinned, kneeling down with the thrill of awe that zipped through him each time they performed this little ritual. He laid his hands on his thighs, keeping his back straight, legs spread wide and eyes downcast. The special words were spoken as Hutch removed the silver chain for the first time since Starsky had been strangled, and replaced it with a leather collar. Starsky was surprised to note that it was the higher, slightly tighter posture collar that made him raise his chin up. He hadn't expected that extra bit of discipline, and felt his cock harden in response. What was it about slavery that increased his desire for Hutch ten fold? The regular collar would have been welcomed, but this one was just a little more severe, reinforcing Hutch's command.

"What's this?" Hutch asked, finding the bandage on Starsky's side.

"Something special, for you, master," Starsky said, trying to keep his gaze down despite the collar that wouldn't allow him to duck his chin.

Hutch guided Starsky to a stand, leading him over to the couch so that he could inspect the addition to his slave more closely. He gently pulled the gauze and tape off, breathing in sharply when he saw the design. "Starsky…it's perfect."

"Yeah?" Starsky grinned shyly, very pleased at Hutch's reaction. The moon and star that now decorated his body complimented each other beautifully. Only slightly different in size, they were two separate entities, equal but opposite, each existing because of the other, not in spite of. Neither possessing, or attempting to outshine the other. The star was dark gold, the moon lighter in color, several shades of yellow, silver and gold creating the luminescent quality of Hutch's hair almost exactly.

"I see the moon, the moon sees me," Hutch sang softly, running his finger across the surface of the tattoo. "Up on the top of a cherry tree. Shine on the one who shines on me…"

"Shine on the one I love," Starsky finished.

"I couldn't have picked a better design." Hutch kissed him again, harder this time, hungrier.

Time no longer mattered to Starsky, he was swept up in a dance older than time itself, responding only to emotion and stimuli, need and fulfillment. The dainty canapés in the kitchen could wait.

"Oh, Starsky, what you do for me," Hutch whispered in awe. He took Starsky's face in both hands, so that they were mere centimeters apart, their noses almost touching.

Starsky was surprised to see tears glistening in those cornflower blue eyes and smiled. He wanted to lean forward, kiss them away, but Hutch restrained him gently. The collar prevented him from bending his head to the front or back, and Hutch kept him steadily right in the middle.

Hutch began kissing each feature in turn, tiny words of love intoned over and over like a Gregorian chant in a Medieval Church. "Stand up, baby, I want to see you."

Mesmerized by his lover's response to the tattoo, Starsky willed himself to breathe in and out, ghost impressions of the kisses lingering on his suddenly sensitive skin. Hutch's hands surfed down the planes and valleys of his body as Starsky stood. Hutch gathered Starsky to him, between his wide spread knees, so that the newly minted moon and star were at eye level. Then, with sweet reverence Hutch planted a fairy circle of kisses around the ink. Starsky had rarely felt so adored or protected.

"Did it hurt?" Hutch asked curiously, his breath ruffling the hair on Starsky's thigh.

"Nah, not enough to even mention. I just kept thinking about you, every second." Starsky looked down on the shining head still examining his adornment. "Y'know that Maori warriors from New Zealand get tattooed with the sharp edge of a shell and get half their bodies covered with circles and wavy lines? Now that would hurt."

"Yeah?" Hutch threaded his fingers through Starsky's dense pubic hair, finding his balls and cock without much of a hunt. "Do they tattoo this part?" He gathered the loose sack into his fist, squeezing just enough to switch on every testosterone secreting cell in Starsky's body.

"I-I don't think so," Starsky gasped, half laughing and half moaning. Oh, please, keep doing that, only slower and with a little rolling… "But Lisa told me Caress had her done."

"On her back," Hutch confirmed, worming his fingers further afield, skating across the tight perineum to the rounded cheeks behind.

"No." Starsky was finding it harder and harder to link words together in some sort of sensible way. "On her…Hutch!" he nearly shouted when those five little travelers found a wonderful, warm haven to hide in. "On her labia."

"I never noticed." Hutch smiled lecherously. "I like your plumbing just the way it is. Gonna plumb the depths deeper than ever, little one. 'Til you see stars."

"And a moon," Starsky vowed, too needy to do anything but sway in his master's grasp.
Hutch pushed Starsky over onto his belly, keeping one hand firmly planted on the moon and star tattoo, and probed against his opening. Starsky had anticipated such an occurrence, and had prepared himself before Hutch got home. His heart skipped a beat when Hutch forced inward, incredibly slowly, much more slowly than Hutch usually entered. Starsky groaned with anticipation, feeling his muscles strain to admit the monster. For some reason, the protracted approach seemed to multiply Hutch's width exponentially. Starsky braced himself, stretching his neck back and howling as the cock inside him inched forward, maddeningly slowly, a thing of monster proportions. He couldn’t believe Hutch's control. Any other day Hutch would already be banging his pelvis into Starsky's butt cheeks, slamming their bodies together in violent conflagration. This gradual, almost agonizing, journey kept Starsky on a knife edge of tension, wanting it to continue, and begging for release.

"Huuutch," Starsky gasped, clutching the edge of the sofa cushion in both fists.
"You can't come," Hutch said simply, then sheathed himself completely in Starsky's body.

Starsky tried to push backwards, ram Hutch more deeply inside, but Hutch held him fast, his big hands clamped down, fingernails digging into the underside of Starsky's thighs. He wasn't allowed to move, wasn't allowed to pleasure himself ahead of his master. He held himself still, Hutch's fingers no doubt leaving deep bruises to mark the occasion as his cock plundered Starsky's inner core. Hutch's scent surrounded him, blanketed him with the aroma of male sex, and Starsky went just a little mad with the smell. His own hardness stropped the rough fabric of the couch, scraping back and forth over the ridge of piping on the cushion, constantly irritated but never attended to. Shaking as if an earthquake had rumbled the foundation, Starsky gripped tightly to the arm of the couch so that he wouldn't disobey and slip down to relieve his terrible need.

Oh sweetness, oh lover…Starsky lost the power of speech as Hutch drilled him over and over, for hours on end. This was climbing Everest, finding Noah's Ark, proving that Atlantis really existed. This was power and glory. Starsky screamed himself hoarse when Hutch came, semen flooding his entrails, filling him up until he thought he couldn't hold another ounce, and still Hutch pumped, thudding his body into Starsky's. It was brutal and elegant, like the beginning of the world.

It wasn't until Hutch was wrapped around him like a huge sweaty comforter that Starsky realized he'd never made a sound since the single command not to come. Usually Hutch was a loud and vocal lover, trumpeting his domination for all to hear.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked. There was always a tiny space of time when he wasn't sure if they were in or out of the session. It kept him off balance, and doubled the adrenaline load. If Hutch was still in full master mode, he could dole out demerits simply because Starsky asked a question out of turn, and yet, other times he didn't seem to care about bending a few of the rules. Sort of the way they worked as detectives, come to think of it.

"You okay? So quiet?" Starsky hitched in a ragged breath, his heart pounding like he'd just chased down a felon. He could feel Hutch's heart slamming against his backbone, for once out of sync with his own. Starsky tried to wiggle around to face his master, but with Hutch's full weight on him, it was nearly impossible. They were very nearly the same poundage, but Hutch had about ten more, and from where Starsky lay, they were ten very heavy ones.

"I almost talked myself into believing you'd never go through with this." Hutch whispered into the back of Starsky's sweaty neck, rubbing his hand over the freshly inked tattoo. "After Kirk, and all his shit, I wasn't sure anymore." He raised up on his elbows, finally disengaging from Starsky's anus with an audible, and squishy pop. Immediately semen began to dribble down Starsky's butt and legs, the reservoir suddenly undammed. Starsky's belly sloshed when he shifted position, kneeling on the floor so he wouldn't slime the couch any further.

"Fuck Kirk," Starsky said harshly. "Or better yet, let the whole population of the Bay City jail, and then San Quentin, fuck him. He's nothing, Hutch. The man's a throw rug."

"What?"

"A throw rug," Starsky repeated. "An' y'know what my grandma used to do to throw rugs? Hang 'em on the line and beat 'em." His hand hovered over the moon and star, but stopped short of touching it. Starsky realized that he would always consider that place on his body, more than any other, Hutch's own. "I didn't do this just 'cause I gotta have one to fly into some crummy island. I did it because I want a little part'a you with me. You're mine, Hutch, forever now."

"Funny thing for the master to be the moon, and the slave a star." Hutch knelt down, their knees touching, foreheads together. "Since the moon always orbits the star." He couldn't seem to keep his hand off the celestial bodies decorating Starsky's. He traced the shapes, the tactile stimulation renewing the tiny sting of the tattoo needle, but Starsky wouldn't have voiced an objection for all the world. "You're my everything, Starsk."

"You brought me back to life a long time ago, an' I'll never forget it." Starsky vowed. He gasped when Hutch shifted his weight, his knee lightly brushing against Starsky's over-ripe cock. Just that tiny stimulation was more than enough to finish Starsky off, but he held back, because his master had commanded it so. "Please, can I touch myself, Hutch, just to…"

"I will," Hutch said sweetly. He reached around to gather some of the seminal fluid still wetting Starsky's backside and slicked it along the length of Starsky's hard-on. Starsky sucked in air, the top of his head nearly coming off with the glorious sensation of Hutch's rough palm stroking him. It was far too much and not enough.

"D-damn," Starsky whispered, trying vainly to breathe like he'd been doing it all his life.

"I love it when you come in my hand." Hutch kept up his steady pace, his eyes drilling holes into Starsky's.

Starsky had never felt so erotic, and wished he could watch Hutch watching him, but the instant Hutch applied more pressure Starsky went off like a Roman candle, screaming his release to the heavens above. He collapsed backward, most of his body against the couch, panting. Hutch was kissing him, first the sagging tip of his manhood, then over on his leg and hip, directly over the tattoo, giving his blessing and approval.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Margreta?" Hutch asked softly, standing carefully in the door of the girl's hospital room, far enough away so that he didn't appear threatening in any way. "Do you remember me?"

"Not Margreta--that was Mama's little girl…" she said airily, her eyes not quite focused on anything actually in the drab, functional little room. "Margreta went away a long time ago…"

"Magenta?" Hutch persisted.

"How's she doin'?" Starsky asked the nurse who had chaperoned them.

"Magenta has some lucid moments, but it's very possible she's a true multiple personality," Stella sighed. "Like Sybil?"

"The Sally Field movie," Starsky agreed.

Hutch tried to tune out the two of them behind him, concentrating on the pale waif in front of him. Magenta looked marginally better than when he'd seen her in her father's freezing kitchen. There was a spark of color in her sallow cheeks, and her dark red curls had been pulled back into a loose ponytail tied with a jaunty green ribbon that matched the green sweat shirt she wore. The most notable difference in her appearance, besides clothes, was the absence of the silver band around her neck. Her doctor had told them that he'd had to use a bolt cutter to remove the solid metal collar without injuring the soft tissues of her throat.

"Magenta, you remember Caress asked me to come talk to you?" Hutch said, walking slowly towards her. She was sitting at a table, sketching. Her artistic talent was evident, but the drawings she'd produced were all violent scenes of sexual depravity without any of the love and consent Hutch knew could be found in more respectful BDSM couplings. "What are you drawing?"

"Daddy's play time," she answered, sucking on her two first fingers, dark eyes as wide and innocent as a five year old's. "You wanna play? Play time always hurts, but Daddy says I have to be a good girl, take it." She stood shyly, then began to pull her green sweat pants off.

Hutch grabbed at her hand to stop her, but that only served to arouse her. She purred low in her throat, shifting so his hand nearly slipped down below her navel, and she wasn't wearing any underwear.

"Magenta!" Stella admonished gently, coming in between the girl and Hutch. She tugged Magenta's pants back into place with a motherly pat. "Remember? No play time with men while you're here."

"Fucking asshole bitch," Magenta growled, shoving the nurse away. "You know what I could do for him? I'm a good lay, the Captain always said so."

The incredibly sudden transformation stunned Hutch. He shrank back from Magenta's vitriol, but she grabbed at him, planting his big hand on one of her small breasts. He could feel the heat rising off her body like a poisonous potion. "You like little ones?" She licked her lips seductively, pressing up against him.

"Margreta!" Starsky said sharply, his voice the crack of a whip.

"Captain?" Magenta peered around Hutch's big body, one hand still inching toward his fly.

"On your knees, girl," Starsky commanded, and she instantly obeyed, face going white.

Hutch nearly wanted to follow her, Starsky's masterful tone was intoxicating in more ways than one. It had been a long time since Hutch entertained any daydreams of letting Starsky take the helm in their BDSM play, but he almost consented then and there. He had to rein in his sexual arousal with a strangulating noose in order to keep the situation from degenerating further that it already had.

"We need to know the names of the girls the Captain played with," Starsky continued. His manner was kinder now, but still stern and correct. Obviously Magenta was so used to dominance and punishment she didn't know how to react any other way.

"She didn't do this when I was with her at the house," Hutch said quietly to the hovering Stella.

"Probably because she was stoned on so many pharmaceuticals she couldn't see straight. Uppers, downers and hallucinogens--been difficult managing her withdrawal. Her liver is really damaged, and there's a good deal of brain damage."

"The split personality?" Hutch asked, his throat tight. He'd suffered through a horrendous withdrawal from a week's worth of heroin. How did anyone survive coming off a life time worth of polydrug use? Margreta Kirk would never be the girl she might have been with a different man for a father.

"She probably already had that," Stella said, moving to keep Magenta in sight at all times. "Research suggests that when some children are horrendously sexually abused at an early age they split--to protect their innocent selves. Drugs just made everything worse."

"Tell me about the girls," Starsky repeated, straddling a chair backwards so that he was a few feet away from the kneeling girl, and above her.

"The Captain took what he wanted," Magenta purred, arching towards Starsky, her nipples nearly poking through the thick cotton of her shirt. "Stupid little fucks just followed him home."

"Magenta, speak politely to the detective," Stella reminded.

"You wanna arrest me, Off-i-cer?" Magenta asked seductively, her eyes dark and feral, not at all the child of a few minutes ago.

Stella angled her body so that she was still watching the menacing girl, but speaking to Hutch "Ask her who she is," she urged, sotto voce. "She's changed personalities. You'll only get her to comply if you stay with her. The other one's a sweet girl but this one I haven't seen too often."

"You're not Magenta, are you?" Hutch asked, glancing at Stella for confirmation. She nodded, indicating he should continue. "Let's just start over, maybe introduce ourselves, because I'm not sure we've formally met. I'm Sergeant Ken Hutchinson, and this is my partner Dave Starsky."

"Something about a man in uniform." Magenta smiled catlike. "Or out of it…Call me Slavebaby. The Captain always did."

"Slavebaby?" Starsky sounded stricken, but he didn't waver.

"We think there are three, possibly more personalities," Stella added. "The expert has been called in but…"

"Shut up, bitch."

"Apologize, girl," Starsky snapped, his words striking like a blow.

Magenta ducked her head, but her dark eyes still glittered. "The slave is sorry and needs to be punished."

"Slavebaby, I get the feeling you take care of Magenta," Hutch said warily. "You came out the minute she started doing something she shouldn't have."

"Damn straight." Magenta cocked her head, peering at him through a wing of red hair that had escaped from her ribbon.

"Then, did you protect the other girls? The ones the Captain brought home?"
s
"When I could." She licked her lips, obviously emboldened since there had been no immediate punishment. "Sometimes he locked me up when the other girls came."

"In your room?"

"My room?" She laughed, blunted, bitter anger crackling around her. There was a powerful danger about her. No surprise that Kirk had kept her restrained much of the time. The pain she'd endured over the years must have built up into a volcano of hate ready to burst. "I don't have a room. That little girl bedroom upstairs is for baby Margreta, not that she ever shows her face much. Magenta does most of the day to day living--and I do the sex, and the pain, and the whips." She laughed, a brittle, broken laugh that held decades of horror at the hand of the man who had spawned her. "You wanna hurt me, lover?" she addressed Hutch, reaching out to the smooth cloth of his chinos. "You wanna put that big tool in my mouth and beat me with a strap until you come? I can see you want to…"

"Magenta!" Stella interrupted the vile come-on.

Hutch swallowed the bile burning in the back of his throat, all the self-hatred he'd felt when arresting and questioning Kirk coming back in a rush. Shit!

No, he didn't want to do it to Slavebaby, but there was a strange, illicit longing to do it to Starsky--or even have it done to himself--to beat the pain away with Starsky's sweet mouth around his cock. He ached, feeling the phantom blows already striking his spine. Vanessa's hand snaking around to close over his erection…

"Get back to the subject, Magenta," Starsky ordered, breaking into Hutch's reverie. "Give us the names of the other girls."

"Torry," she said petulantly.

"We know Torry. We found her, she's alive."

Hutch held his breath, willing the raging lust inside him down to a dull roar, but he could see a subtle shift in Slavebaby's face. She was relieved to hear that Torry had survived. "We know about Torry, Lily and Deshan." He recited a few more of the names he'd memorized of the few they'd ID'd. Magenta nodded after each name, but her eyes gave back nothing, like empty mirrors.

"There was a girl, all dressed in leather," Starsky was saying. He stood, walking around the chair and offering a hand to the still kneeling girl. "If you be a good girl, you can sit here--be more comfortable." Magenta shrank out of reach for a second, searching his face for any reason to trust the offer. She was obviously wary of any kindness.
"Sit," Starsky urged gently. "I know your feet must be tingling by now, huh? Mine do when I kneel like that."

"How would you know?" she challenged, but stood without his help. Hutch was interested to see she didn't try to stamp her feet to restore the circulation but stepped carefully over to the chair and sat. He'd drilled into Starsky many a time that a slave obeyed absolutely, without question, and without attending to his own needs. Magenta/Slavebaby had been taught to be a slave from birth. Could she ever hope to live a normal life?

"I've been where you are, sweetheart," Starsky admitted, speaking barely loudly enough for anyone to hear him except Magenta, but he hadn't softened his masterful stance. He was just a kinder, gentler master now. "On the floor, chained, with a leather mask over my eyes. Makes you wonder who you are, if anyone sees you at all."

Slavebaby was absolutely still, her breathing so shallow Hutch was afraid she'd pass out from lack of oxygen. She clenched her jaw, her eyes suspiciously bright, but didn't waver. "I never met her--the last one. He put me and Torry in the hot room. For a long time, days maybe, while he played with her. He called her Vixen."

"The hot room?" Hutch asked, almost afraid to know. The house had been so incredibly cold he found it hard to believe there'd been a warm place inside those frigid walls.

"He controlled everything," she spat. "He controlled the weather. It was so hot I wanted out into the cold. Wanted out of that rubber suit, to feel my own skin. So damned hot, with no water and nothing… until you'd do anything for him. Anything for a drink of water and something to eat."

"Doctor said she probably hadn't eaten in days when she arrived here," Stella said.

Hutch felt physically sick and wondered how much longer he could stand to listen to her before he ran out of the room. Why the hell hadn't Caress warned them? Or had Kirk's particular brand of evil worsened over the years? Maybe her stay hadn't been quite as horrible? He hoped not.

"Was Vixen her real name, or a nickname?" Starsky snapped.

"I don't know."

"A name. Her whole name."

Hutch almost flinched, Starsky's words hitting him with the heavy thud of a leather strap. So long ago he'd been the one in the chair, begging for help while Starsky bombarded him with questions. Starsky could be tough and relentless, when he had to be.

"Vixen," Magenta raged, but she never got up off her chair. Too well trained "That's fuckin' all I know!"

"Maybe Vicky?" Starsky asked in a more conversational tone of voice.

Hutch waited for the girl's reply, recalling the list of recent missing girls they'd pulled earlier in the week. There had been a flyer for a Vicky Mendoza, missing for two months. That, combined with the information they'd gotten from Torry an hour ago, after her psychiatrist finally felt she could handle being interviewed, clinched the deal. Vicky Mendoza was probably Leathergirl. Torry had remembered meeting a Vicky at a well known BDSM hangout, describing Leathergirl to a 'T'; baby short black hair, a safety pin through her left nostril, and what Torry called black 'wicked' fingernails, and a sassy mouth.

"Torry, and--uh--," Magenta was disintegrating before their eyes, her soul caught halfway between personalities and so vulnerable Hutch would have gathered her into his arms if he weren't afraid Slavebaby would come back and gouge out his eyes.

"Torry and Lily went out with my daddy one night. He said I was a bad girl." She almost sobbed, then the lethal anger of Slavebaby took over and banished the brief glimpse of Magenta. "I heard 'em come back."

"Where were you?" Hutch asked. If she'd been in one of the sound-proofed rooms there was no way she could have heard them.

"I dunno," she ground out, rubbing her neck where the silver band had once been. "Had some pretty good shit before they left. The Captain gave me a shot, y'know, was buzzing like a bee. Could use some'a that right now."

"You're not due for your dose until seven p.m.," Stella reminded. "She gets methadone every morning and Phenobarbital in the evening, to help with the withdrawals."

"I heard 'em go by--down the back stairs to the hellhole. Lily kept tellin' the Captain that she felt sick--Vixen was laughing, said she couldn't hold her liquor."

"Lily was sick," Starsky repeated, glancing up at Hutch.

Magenta laughed abruptly, her fingers moving down from her throat to the neck of her green sweat shirt. She slipped one hand in, obviously fondling her breast. "Lil' one puked on the carpet. Captain beat her for it. I know better." She shimmied her right hand up from the bottom of her shirt, and in a flash nearly had it completely off, her naked breasts peeking out like lush peaches in a picnic basket. "Wanna cop a feel, cop? Aren't they pretty?" she appealed to Starsky.

"Magenta!" Stella redressed her quickly. "You can't do that in front of them."

"I always have," she replied, confused. "Daddy always told me to show 'em off. They're her best feature, that, and her twat."

Barely maintaining his professional decorum, Hutch tried one last time to steer the questions back to the identity of Leathergirl. "The new girl, Vicki or Vixen. Did you see her?"

"Made Torry clean up. I didn't do that," she babbled. "I never puke on him. Daddy played with her! Wicked Vixen, Captain called her. Nasty wicked Vixen. I had to go in the hot room, and I didn't do anything wrong. Lily and the new girl got him. He stopped playing with me, only played with them…an' Lily…"

"What?" Starsky put out a hand, but pulled it back. Magenta was too far gone, she never noticed.

"Lily got away that night. I wanted to go, too." She stuck two fingers in her mouth, sucking hard like a hungry baby on a nipple.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Starsky couldn't get out of Bay City General hospital fast enough, his Adidas eating up the blue and gray patterned linoleum in the hall, but he was still no match for his partner. Hutch was walking so quickly it was like the two of them were in a race where the parking lot was the finish line, and the first one there got the glory. Only there wasn't any glory, just a violent feeling of disgust so strong Starsky wanted to drive home and shower. He braced himself on the hood of the Torino, sucking in huge lungfuls of spring scented air.

How was it that flowers kept blooming and birds continued to sing when there was such filth going on around them? Starsky chanced a look over at Hutch who had folded himself up into a remarkably small space for such a large man. He was seated on the curb with his knees up under his chin and long arms wrapped around bent legs.

"Hutch?" Starsky would have brushed the shaggy blond bangs off his lover's forehead if they'd been in their little house, but in public he wasn't allowed such intimacy. He settled for squeezing Hutch's rock hard shoulder in compassion. "You okay?"

"No," Hutch said vehemently. "Shit, that man should be taken out behind the courthouse and shot."

"I can't…" Starsky grimaced, still reeling from the little Magenta had told them of her life. They'd probably never get a whole picture of the abuse James Kirk had perpetrated on his own daughter and the other girls. "How he did those things. It's sick--not even close to anything…Hutch, I met those people at MAST. This isn't the norm."

"What if it is, only we're too blind to see it?" Hutch asked hopelessly. "What if we're dabbling in a cesspool where we can't even see the bottom?"

"Then we're swimming at the top, and that bastard is in the crapper," Starsky hissed, yanking his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket so fast he nearly tore the fabric. "You ready to go? We can get something to eat."

"After that? All I want to do…" Hutch gouged his palm into his breast bone, a far more vicious gesture than his usual habit.

"Eat," Starsky wheedled. It wasn't so much that he needed a burger right then, either, more like a couple of beers, but they were on duty until six. "Get some perspective here." He waited until Hutch got wearily to his feet and opened the car door.

"Wait," Hutch said, and caught Starsky's eyes over the shiny red hood. "Thanks for covering for me. I think I blew it back there."

"Hey, you're too sensitive for your own good, Blondie." Starsky shrugged. "I kinda understood what she responded to."

"Yeah, I did, too."

Starsky felt something odd twist inside him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to voice what he'd suspected back in that dreary hospital room. "I saw the look on your face when she came on to you."

"Starsky!" Hutch exploded. "Not with her!"

"No, I know!" Starsky could see hospital personnel shepherding a group of boys around the building to the basketball court, and he yanked open the driver's side door. "In the car, Hutch." The fact that Hutch responded so promptly confirmed what Starsky was thinking. "You want t'change the ways things are with us."

"No…" Hutch said miserably.

Starsky couldn't remember when he'd seen his strong best friend so felled by a case. Like back when Lionel Rigger had died, and Hutch shouldered all the blame despite evidence to the contrary. This time, Hutch couldn't blame himself, so he was wallowing in a quagmire of half-truths designed to cut him out in the cloth of a monster.

"I'm always doing it all to you. Haven't you even wanted to turn the tables? Starsk, the way you got her to obey. I would have knelt at your feet in there. You made my blood boil."

"Yeah?" Starsky grinned, pleased that he'd turned Hutch on so, but uneasy with the concept of being master. "I wouldn't mind takin' the lead once in a while, Hutch, but only for temporary, right?"

"It's your house, Starsky, you make the rules, remember?"

"S'true. What is it you…" Starsky trailed off, recalling exactly when he'd seen the change on Hutch's face. Specifically when Magenta said; "You wanna put that big tool in my mouth and beat me with a strap until you come?" Sweat broke out all down Starsky's back and he shuddered, "Hutch, I'll take a beejay from you any day o'the week, on your knees, or in the bed, but I ain't smacking you."

"So I can hit you, but you can't hit me?" Hutch bristled.

"Just about sums it up, yeah."

"Why?"

"Because!" Starsky had no real answer, except that the idea of bringing a leather strap down on that creamy fair skin gave him the heebie-jeebies. Weird that he could take it but not dish it out. "Never gonna do it to you." He shoved the keys into the ignition, starting the car just to stop the conversation, but Hutch only raised his voice.

"You're a coward."

Three little words, but they stabbed deep. For a moment, Starsky could barely breathe. "Hutch, don't make me do this." He clamped down on the emotional load that threatened to drown him. "I can't--just accept that, huh?" Staring straight ahead, Starsky piloted the car though two intersections, waiting for Hutch's reply, but the man--his lover--in the passenger seat kept a stony silence. "I'll truss you up in half a ball a'twine, cover those pretty eyes with the blindfold, and jam the biggest butt plug you got up your ass, but I ain't hitting you." His voice nearly quavered but Starsky caught himself and coughed over the end of the sentence.

Hutch sanded his palm over the grain of his jeans, head down, but Starsky sensed something significant had shifted and a little of the tension left him.

"One demerit for refusing to beat the shit out of your master," Hutch said lightly. "But special credit for the bit about the ball of twine. It's a deal." He reached over and tapped a finger on the speedometer. "You think you can try and stay under the speed limit? Don't need a traffic cop stopping us."

"How many demerits I got now?" Starsky quipped, shifting his weight, the sudden twinge he felt on his backside more of a phantom's caress than the weight of a crop. He eased his foot of the gas, wondering how the conversation had gone from being about Hutch's needs to his own insecurities.

"Don't know, your master stayed at home today--where he belongs."

Nothing more was said until Starsky killed the engine behind The Pits, and he was just as happy with the comfortable silence. They argued, they bickered, but it all came back to an all abiding love.

"You want to tell me the real reason?" Hutch asked. He unbuckled his seat belt but didn't make a move to get out.

"Just plain weird t'have you asking me why I won't flog the daylights outta you."

"What is it about pain play that's got you on the defensive? Never was an issue before, or was it, and I wasn't paying attention?"

"Not pain play," Starsky snorted in amusement, really not wanting to air his own dirty laundry. "I'm countin' the days until I get to pinch your nuts with those sharp little alligator teeth."

"Okay, so it's just the strap?"

"How'd you do it to me, the first time?"

"The very first time?" Hutch smiled ruefully. "I was mad as hell at the stunt you pulled. Shouldn't have hit you because of that, something not related to anything on the clock. I was running on pure adrenaline, and didn't plan things out as I should have. Remember that night? Street full of civilians, a wounded hooker and a crazy drug dealer with a semi-automatic. You ran across the street like you were Rambo incarnate and took him down with the butt of your .38. I wanted to pull your britches down in the middle of the street and blister your butt right then and there."

"You asked me if my teachers ever snacked me--with a ruler," Starsky rubbing a finger across the ridge of his knuckles.

"That's right."

"Hell, Hutch, I didn't make it through the first week a'school without a couple of bruises. Third grade teacher was the worst of the lot, but they all had their own particular styles."

"Wouldn't be allowed now days," Hutch said quietly, the joking out of his voice.

"Miss Pritchard--fourth grade, usta keep a thick dictionary on the side of her desk. Whoever was on her black list that week hadda sit in the desk closest to hers, so she didn't have to reach very far t'nail you one on the top of the head."

"Starsky…"

"So you whacking me with a ruler, wasn't much, y'know? And I was so--surprised that it turned me on. Never would have guessed. Mz. Pritchard never had that affect on me."

"Makes a difference who's holding the switch…"

"That's the point." Starsky squinted down at his hands. Competent hands, but surprisingly delicate for a man. Girls always commented on that. Could he really pick something up and paddle Hutch until his ass lit up like a Christmas tree? "I'm not like…my dad."

"I wondered when we were getting to him."

"Huh?'

"You're not your father, and I'm not a scared 8 year old on his birthday, hiding in the closet."

"It wasn't abuse or anything."

"Not then, but it might be considered that now," Hutch countered. "Like what we do in the privacy of our own session chamber."

"That's different."

"We all see things from different perspectives," Hutch agreed. He moved the hand that had been toying with the seatbelt onto Starsky's thigh. "If you think of picking up a belt and swatting me, you identify with your father, but when I smack you with half a dozen different toys, you don't see me as your father, do you?"

"No, but that's different!" Starsky repeated in frustration. He couldn't logically explain why he didn't want to do the deed, just that he couldn't. Not to Hutch. Not to anyone. "You twist things around better'n a trial lawyer--and don't remind me I've slugged you on more than one occasion."

"Because that would be different," Hutch teased.

Starsky sneered at him, feeling peevish.

"Starsk, I'm not forcing you to do something you don't want to do--but I am saying that I would like to…I think it would help me right now, get rid of some of the feelings I've been having about this case. That maybe I need to be taken down a peg or two."

"And here I was just getting used to you up on that pedestal." Starsky plucked at Hutch's fingers, tugging gently on the ends before wrapping his whole hand around them.
"Makes you look even taller. But the hair shirt's gotta go. Saint Kenneth, you ain't."

"And what would you know about sainthood? I've always aspired to martyrdom."

"See." Starsky grinned, relaxing. They'd somehow talked each other out of bad moods without even meaning to. "I've always suspected that about you. Gotta get out more, blondie. The martyrs went out with the crusades." He leaned back on the headrest of the seat, watching Hutch from under his eyelashes. The lights from the street created the glow of a halo around all that blond hair. "A knight of the round table, now that I could see. Sir Hutch, the golden."

"And that would make you one of the infidels?"

"Damn straight."

"Gypsy Prince Dah-veed, riding up on a black Arabian, all decked out in red silk and tassels."

"Me or the horse?"

"The horse," Hutch's voice had dropped down a register, low and seductive. "You're wearing a long robe, but where I go into your tent in the oasis, there's nothing on underneath at all…"

Starsky arched his pelvis to relieve the growing ache in his groin when the back door of The Pits opened with a resounding bang, and Vinnie, the most recent fry cook, lumbered out to dump a bucket of trash.

"Dammit," Starsky swore, sitting up so quickly he practically strangled his erection. "We're still on duty."

"Both of us kind of forgot," Hutch commiserated, rubbing a hand over his groin. "You hungry yet?"

"Gimme a minute," Starsky groaned, giggling weakly. "You wanna log us out with dispatch?"

Grabbing up the mic, Hutch keyed the relay button, "Dispatch, Zebra three out for the Pits, code seven." He started to laugh, too, which only served to re-infect Starsky.

"Say again, Zebra three?" the dispatcher asked in confusion.

"We're code seven at the Pits," Hutch managed between giggles.

Starsky wiped his eyes, still laughing helplessly. At this rate he was going to have to jack off in Huggy's men's room to relieve the evidence of Hutch's seductive fantasies. It wouldn't do to walk into the squadroom with his jeans tented out in front--and from the looks of things, Hutch had the same problem. They still had to go meet with Lisa and her boss for an update on the investigation. There was no doubt that James Kirk was guilty, the only question was exactly how they were going to prosecute the case. Dealing with Assistant D.A. Hartman always made Starsky think about doing something naughty involving Hutch, handcuffs and lots of leather, and he wondered just how he was going to get through the meeting.

Then again, just thinking of Magenta's life was like pouring cold water on his sexual desire. Starsky squeezed Hutch's hand and got out of the car.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hutch stood, as he often did, in front of the koi pond in Caress' front yard, watching the orange and black fish glide sinuously through the clear water. Shadows from the trees behind him created shifting patterns on the surface of the pond. He tossed a pebble into the water, the ripples spreading outward to bifurcate each leaf shaped silhouette. How little it took to effect change, and how much it took to bring things back into harmony.

The calming influence of the peaceful garden helped ameliorate some of the pain Hutch had been carrying around for the last few days. But he still couldn't shake the specter of menace that plagued him. Rationally he knew he had nothing in common with James Kirk, but rationality was not the judge which ruled his nightmares and subconscious. As nebulous as dreams usually were, disappearing once the dreamer awakened, these horrors stayed with Hutch all the day long. He would see the frightened faces of Lily, Magenta, Torry, and Vicki. Hear their screams--and when run through the wavery dreamscape to rescue them, until he always found Starsky, glistening red stripes criss-crossing his back and a leather thong twisted around his neck.

He had to get rid of the misplaced guilt before it brought him to his knees. There was no way he was going away with his lover, to The Bondage Island of the Atlantic, as Starsky had dubbed St. Marquis, feeling like he was a criminal for playing master to his slave prince.

"I always know where I can find you." Caress smiled, coming to sit on a stone bench and peer at the long flowing tails of the fish. "I think you like my koi almost as much as the lessons in knot tying."

"Which, if I haven't told you, are fantastic. Starsky looked like a birthday present done up in white rope. I almost didn't want to untie him after all those hours of tying him up."

"But where's the fun in that?" Caress teased lightly.

"Inspired me to sketch him, and I haven't done that in years."

"Creative outlets unravel the knots holding us to convention." She nodded, patting the gray stone. "Come. Sit down. I'd like to sound inscrutable and say you look like your Chi is out of alignment, but in reality you look like you're tied up in a few knots yourself."

When Hutch sat down next to her, she slid her hand along his arm and up to his shoulders, the wide sleeve of her blue kimono trailing behind like a peacock's tail. Pushing him gently until he faced away from her, Caress began to massage his rock hard shoulders. Letting his head drop forward to give her nimble fingers access to the tight cords in his neck, Hutch let out a sigh. Even to himself it sounded more angry than content, but he tried to soak in the relaxing aura she was projecting.

Caress was such a fascinating bundle of contradictions--tiny but dominating, coy but ferocious, aggressive but soothing, and addicted to the violence of the whip, yet nurturing and tender to her friends. Who was this women? Why didn't he compare himself with her version of domination instead of Kirk's?

He listened to the whisper of her silk kimono against the rougher fabric of his shirt, chastising himself for not changing into something cleaner before he arrived. The pressure had been building since the interview with Magenta--he was beginning to hate how he was acting, and knew that Starsky was confused and disoriented. One minute Hutch was hot for that furry, tightly muscled body, and the next his dick was limp as a flag on a windless day, unable to allow himself any pleasure Starsky was willing to bestow. And anything remotely resembling BDSM was completely out of the question.

In any event, he'd bolted the squadroom an hour earlier, unable to stand holding it all in another minute. Maybe Caress would let him beat up the dummy he usually practiced smacking. Or better yet…

"I need to be whipped," Hutch heard himself blurt out when she was applying pressure to a particularly painful place directly between his scapula. She didn't take her knuckle away until there were stars dancing across his retina and the top of his head threatened to come off. He was surprised at how good that felt afterward, and rotated his neck, hearing the pop and crackle of shifting cartilage.

Caress sat back, folding her hands in her lap and regarding him with quizzical intensity. "Why?" she asked simply. When he started to stumble over a reply, she held up one hand, stopping him. "I have no objection to doing what you request, but when a man--either a client or a student--asks me to do something rather out of the ordinary for him, then I need a reason."

"You've used a strap, hell, and a crop, on me before," Hutch protested.

"To drive home a lesson, not for self-flagellation."

"It could hardly be called self-flagellation if you do it to me."

"Touché. Nonetheless, I don't raise leather over someone unless they enjoy it, or I feel they need to be punished--sometimes both." She tapped him on the chest. "You don't fit into either category."

Fury rose up in Hutch so quickly he actually saw red, and had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to gain any kind of composure. "Why the hell didn't you tell us the truth about Magenta? Kirk's abused her since she was tiny--she's a split personality! Didn't you know that? Couldn't you tell? You've spoken to her!"

"Are you done?" Caress asked coldly.

"Not by a long shot, lady," Hutch shouted, propelled off the bench to stomp across the delicately placed paving stones. He had an urge to kick and destroy the tranquil simplicity of the Zen garden, but stopped himself with a bellow of rage. "That shit nearly killed Starsky, and you sent us there blind! He's no dom, he's a sadist, through and through. A murderer."

"I never actually met Magenta--I knew of her," Caress corrected so softly Hutch had to stop his pacing to hear her. "I've always known about her. She was…maybe two when I stayed with the Captain. Except, of course, she was called Margreta then. I truly was unaware that Magenta and Margreta were the same girl. I haven't been to his home since 1968. The few times I saw her in a club, it was from afar--and Magenta only appeared on the scene a few months ago."

"After she turned 16."

"I suspect so," Caress agreed and Hutch was stunned to see tears in her eyes. She swept the long sleeve across her face in an oddly angry gesture, and magically all display of emotion disappeared. "I--I admit I may have omitted a few details that I was privy to, but Ken, I had no idea what he was doing to those girls. From my experience, I could extrapolate, but…his cruelty has escalated since I was one of the toys he tried to break."

"You're unbreakable, Jeanne Tatsumi," Hutch said, the wrath draining out of him.

"Hardly. We all have internal scars to bear, and attempt to ignore. Which is why, I know, from experience, you can't beat them out with a whip."

"What if I need to find out for myself?"

"That's different. But have you talked to David about this?"

"Starsky refused."

"To whip you? He's always did have sense."

"He'll be happy to hear you think so," Hutch said bitterly. "How much did you really know about Kirk?"

"My own experience. Quiet whispers in my ear over the years--rumors, as I stated in your superior's office. It was all unsubstantiated innuendo. I'm sure you can imagine how he kept those girls from talking."

"But you've suspected him for some time?"

"Yes--because he didn't go along with the edicts that MAST had mandated. Nearly every other dominant in the area--in the whole Los Angeles basin, and Orange County, too, had joined in. We need to be viewed as safe and consensual, not the ogres that TV shows and movies portray us as. So, having rules, a mission statement, for God's sake, and ethics can only help the cause."

"No argument here."

"Except for Kirk. He laughed in our faces, flaunted very young girls at the clubs, even after he'd been told to keep underage girls out. To maintain credibility, the clubs obviously have to conform to liquor and age of consent laws. I knew that those girls would still find a way to circumvent the rules. I certainly did, and unfortunately he made it entirely too easy for them." She ducked her head in an oddly vulnerable gesture, running a finger over the intricate embroidery on her gown. "How many do you estimate he killed?"

"No way to tell. We still haven't even ID'd every girl in the photos."

"I'm still waiting for a few woman who have left the scene to call me back."

"That could be a long wait. You said you knew of Magen…Margreta when she was a toddler. Did you know her mother? We've found nothing on her."

"Lorena. She's dead, as far as I know. A long time ago. Lorena Billings, Kirk never married her."

"Did he kill her?"

"She left him, without the baby. Then I heard she committed suicide--liquor and pills. Who knows? He caused it, that I'm sure."

"I'll pull the file, all suicides have to be investigated," Hutch said dully, his soul dipped in sewage. He didn't want to go home to Starsky like this. There had to be some sort of relief. "I want to feel something stronger than the crap inside. Something that will chase it out and…"

"You want to be purified, Ken. The whip can't do that, despite what generations of nuns might think."

"Then drive the lesson home by proving that," he challenged.

Caress stared at him, her beautiful face as blank as a Kabuki mask, and just as hard. Even so, it was obvious there was no way she was going to back down from a dare. Abruptly she stood, gesturing for him to proceed her up the path to the house. Hutch walked with leaden feet, uncertain about what he had gotten himself into to. Would she leave him bloody and scored? Why did he give her that kind of power?

In that jolting instant, he had some inkling of what the slave gives up to his master. Power. He'd always seen it from the master's point of view--the taking of power. The relinquishing of power was a whole different ball of wax. Losing power, strangely didn't leave him with nothing at all, it just left a submissive open and receptive.

The slave had to be so much more in control--braver--perhaps, because he rarely knew what was in store. Starsky seemed to relish this uncertainty, to thrive on it, even. Exactly why he drove his car too fast, chased down criminals in dark alleys and gleefully tried new combinations of burritos that, to Hutch, sounded unpalatable. Uncertainty could be a turn on, or a turn off. And Hutch was in no way aroused as Caress pointed the way to her chamber. The smooth white walls did nothing for his state of mind when faced with a whipping frame.

"I take it you want a real whip, not the crop or a flogger," Caress said casually, going over to where her wares were displayed in a glass fronted case. "So, in the interest of safety, I need to secure your hands and feet so you don't pull away at the wrong moment."

Finding it oddly hard to draw a satisfying breath, Hutch shed his clothes, piling them on a shelf to one side of the brown wooden structure. Leather cuffs were already attached above and below, making it a simple matter of slipping his hands and feet into their assigned positions, and waiting for Caress to do up the buckles. It had been a very long time since he'd been in such a vulnerable place. The first time Caress used the strap on him, Hutch had been nude, but not tied down. Memories of his life with Vanessa floated to the forefront of his memory bank, but he refused a deposit. The last thing he wanted to remember was his beautiful wife tying him to the four postered bed and smacking his butt with her favorite bit of leather, before she perched on the end of the mattress with her legs up against his shoulders so he could penetrate her while his hands were still tied.

A whip cracked behind him like the retort of a gun going off. Hutch gasped in shock, but Caress had only been practicing. By craning his neck, Hutch could watch her out of the corner of his eye. She held the long wicked looking thing with the ease of an expert. In her tiny hand, the whip looked enormous, the long braided tail a sleeping black snake coiled at her feet. Snapping her arm back again, Caress flicked the whip, the flexible leather rending the air, a noise like a mini sonic boom shockingly loud in the otherwise silent house. For the first time Hutch wondered just where Lisa might be, and was she working in her home office, as she often did, aware that her mistress was servicing a client?

"Eyes forward," Caress commanded in an ominous voice.

His eyes glued on the white wall inches from his face, Hutch thought about Magenta, Torry, and most of all, 16 year old Jeanne Tatsumi, bound in exactly the same way, waiting for exactly the same fate. What had pushed Torry to such a destiny? What had propelled Caress out of that same dreadful place to where she was now? What gave Hutch the wherewithal to reject Vanessa's domination, yet turn around and subject to Starsky to his own dominion? Did having even an inkling of what the slave went through give the dom more compassion? Something James Kirk lacked. Hell, the man lacked that most basic tenet of humanity, the heart.

Hearing the whip crack closely enough that he felt a rush of hot air on his skin, Hutch flinched. A tiny ember sparked fire on his left shoulder, just to the left of where Caress had so recently been massaging. Moments later, the same burning coal touched his right shoulder. More like the sting of wasps than anything as forceful as Hutch had expected, and then Caress was unbuckling him.

"You've felt the tail of my whip, did it scour the nastiness from your soul?"

"I'm beginning to think that just being tethered to the frame did most of the job," Hutch said soberly, shifting his back muscles and rotating his neck. He was astounded at the level of precision Caress possessed to place the tip of the whip just so. The tiny wounds stung, but nothing he couldn't handle. Much less pain than he'd given Starsky with the narrow length of a crop.

Caress smiled knowingly, winking. "You got into the mind of the slave, a place I think you don't really enjoy."

"But a place I need to visit once in a while."

"I have someone I go to, once or twice a year, just to abandon the control for a short time. Lisa takes a vacation from slavery, and I take one to become one. It's our only means of giving ourselves back the boundaries that prevent a prudent domme from becoming someone like Kirk."

"Boundaries?" Hutch asked, sliding his shirt on over the tiny reminders of the whip.

"Just how far your control reaches. You have a set of internal guidelines that keep you in check, but they have to be reinforced periodically. You and David must have discussed what your relationship entails." She folded herself up on a silk cushion and began preparing tea, the signal that their session was ending. "Is there something you would never do to him?"

"Many things--infancy play, uh--scat…”

"Never liked that one either." Caress wrinkled up her nose. "I have a client, though, who loves that dirty stuff. To me, it ties in with the infancy fetish. Being a baby covered in poop."

"But on the other hand, Starsky really doesn't like gags, but I make him take them."

"To keep the power. To show him you're in control. I'm sure he appreciates the confines, the proof of your domination. Does it give you a little thrill? A small pleasure to savor?"

"Yeah," Hutch had to admit. It wasn't so much that he liked stopping Starsky's expressive mouth, or covering that handsome face with a tight, provacative leather mask, but it did arouse him, made him feel masterful. The realization was both scary and rewarding, in equal measures.

"Strange to know you have the ability--the need--to hurt the one you love, isn't it?" Caress poured steaming green tea into elegant Japanese style cups. "And yet there's no sense of desire to do it to someone you have no feelings for. The twisted, and yet delicious, paradox of BDSM. Pain is pleasure, and pleasure is pain, for both the domme and the slave." She held out a plate of crispy brown tidbits. "Care for some seaweed?"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Thanks, Captain," Hutch said quietly, keeping an eye out for his partner. He'd sent Starsky off to return some evidence to the property room. They'd been going over some of the sexual toys found in Kirk's home, comparing them to photographs of the girls. Many of the items were in use in the pictures, making it all the easier to prove the crimes the man was charged with. The case was more or less out of their hands, at this point, they'd only been doing it to help lighten the prosecution's workload.

With the ID of Vicki Mendoza, and the addition of her amazingly proactive mother, the DA had gained another ally. Theodora Mendoza had the conviction of two mothers, and was spearheading a movement to bring the other mothers of the abused and murdered girls into a cohesive group to stand up against James Kirk. They'd already brought a class action suit against him. Hutch's only concern was if the campaign started a backlash against the whole BDSM community. But Caress had assured him that MAST had weathered such things in the past, and would certainly have to again, in the future. Never a bunch to advertise themselves to the populous at large, the participants of the scene still managed to exist in spite of conservative religious groups and enraged mother's protests. Besides, putting out a warning about men such as Kirk might just keep some of the easily influenced and naïve girls at home for a few more years.

"You're welcome." Dobey cleared his throat. "I might not completely understand your relationship with your partner, but I can't deny it's a strong and committed one. A vacation together is a wonderful way to strengthen your…love as a couple, in an exotic setting. Edith and I went to Hawaii the first year we were married. I think that's how we got Cal." He chuckled, a hearty laugh that came from deep in his chest. "That's not going to happen in your case, is it?"

"I doubt it," Hutch laughed, too, trying to imagine he or Starsky with the round belly of a pregnant mother.

"Where are you going?"

"To the islands," Hutch said evasively, hoping to give the impression that it was Hawaii without actually stating their true destination.

"I'll see you in two weeks, then." Dobey disappeared into his own office just as Starsky swung in through the door to the squadroom.

"Two weeks?" Starsky asked, sounding excited. "We goin' away, Hutch?"

"We're leaving on a jet plane," Hutch started, and then laughed at his inadvertent use of a song title. He grasped Starsky's wrist with just the right amount of pressure that always switched on Starsky's submissive side, and peered at his watch. He could sense the arousal climb through Starsky with that minimal contact. "Plane leaves in about an hour and a half, we'll just make it to LAX." Feeling his own desire increase when Starsky twisted his wrist enough to make the bones shift against his palm, Hutch let go before he lost all control in front of half the force. "C'mon, I need to get rid of this gun before we get on the plane." Without looking back, he strode down the hall to the locker room, fumbling with the buckle on his holster.

Starsky did indeed follow but stood watching Hutch for a beat before wrestling off his own shoulder holster and handing over his weapon. The intensity in his eyes seared a line of heat down Hutch's spine as he locked both guns away safely.

"Are you ready?" He caught Starsky' gaze and held it, silently sending out all his love and assurances. This week would challenging, but hopefully one they would never forget.

Starsky reflected back that love with interest, then shrugged his jacket back on, looking around curiously. "We're not going back to the house? I didn't pack anything."

Hutch waited until they were in the parking garage to answer, not wanting to give the already rampant rumors about his and Starsky's sex life any more ammunition. He unlocked the LTD and motioned Starsky in. "I packed everything we'll need. How many clothes did you think you'd be wearing, slave?"

Starsky gulped, his blue eyes just a trifle too wide, like he'd been caught in the headlights and had to think about just the right course of action--to flee or stand up and take what comes. Maybe the whole weight of what they were about to do had finally hit. Finally he gave a little insouciant grin. "St. Marquis, here we come."

Hutch was glad the traffic was light that afternoon. He'd chosen well to leave on a Wednesday, when most people still had two days of nose-to-the-grindstone before the weekend. He and Starsky had certainly done more than their fair share of hard work, with overtime, to boot.

It had been over a month since the discovery of Lily Evanovich's floating corpse, and then the ensuing investigation into James Kirk's demonic lifestyle. Hutch had let go of his terrors about domination, put to rest strangely, not by Caress' whip, but by getting back into the saddle, as it were.

After his bolt over to the house of his mentor, he'd gone home, ordered Starsky onto all fours, and taken him from behind in a hard, aggressive thrust. Starsky's satisfied response had been all he really needed. Things had been on a much more even keel since then, despite the ever growing stack of evidence into the depravity of a man few apparently knew well. The Mayor had given up his defense of Kirk, and was now fighting a battle of his own. Right-wing conservatives lobbied for his impeachment due to alleged improprieties of a sexual nature. The thing was, Starsky and Hutch had learned that those improprieties were in no way alleged. They were unable to reveal how and why they knew what they knew, and as far as they were concerned, as long as the mayor performed his job correctly in public, what was a little bondage among friends in the privacy of his own dungeon? Just as long as it was consensual.

After unloading one suitcase and a carryon bag from the trunk of the car, Hutch left his beloved heap in the long-term parking lot. Starsky carried the larger bag, but Hutch wasn't about to let his lover take a peek in the smaller one. He wanted Starsky completely surprised by everything.

While they were waiting for the tram to bring them to the main terminal, Hutch reviewed everything he'd read in the guide book provided with their reservations for St Marquis. There was a book for the master, and one for the slave, which he planned to give Starsky on the plane. The primary rule was that the master had complete control over his slave as long as they were on the island. The book thoughtfully suggested ways to gain that authority, such as taking over money, decisions about food and clothing, and where the slave could go unaccompanied. Hutch had already packed the clothes, and other accessories, he'd kept the date of their vacation a secret and now, he was about to cut even more of Starsky's autonomy. How would his volatile partner react? Like an angered tiger or a sensual kitten? Probably a little of both, Hutch surmised.

"You're going to have to be submissive for seven days on the island," Hutch said quietly. They were alone in the wide parking lot surrounded by cars and hundreds of empty parking spaces, but not a soul near enough to hear their discussion. He could see the tram wending toward them, although it was still the length of two football fields away. It was now, or much later.

"Yeah," Starsky agreed warily.

"With that in mind, I'll take your police ID, driver's license, and whatever cash you have." Hutch held out his hand, impressed that it was steady as a rock and not quaking. He was beginning to reconsider this whole vacation. It wasn't that Starsky might have a problem staying in character for a week, it was that Hutch would. Being the dom was damned hard work.

Starsky's indigo eyes flashed warning signs, but he dug a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the requested items. "Don't spend it all in one place."

"These are parts of you, Starsk. I'm keeping them close to my heart," Hutch said gently, slipping everything into the hidden pocket in the inside lining of his leather jacket. He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on the diamond stud in Starsky's left ear. From the angle of the tram coming toward them, there was no way anyone could see what the two of them were doing anyway. He felt Starsky's tough stance soften with the kiss, and he rubbed a loving hand down the curve of Starsky's butt. "I wasn't planning to spend a dime. Besides, everything on the island's already paid for."

"Yeah?" Starsky perked up. "Food, and all?"

"Food, the hot tub, a bottle of champagne for the first night, and some…special toys," Hutch dropped his voice down seductively.

"I'm lookin' forward to the first night, master."

"Only time you'll get champagne, that's for sure. They don't serve liquor in the bars."

"S'okay." Starsky waggled his eyebrows. "The bubbles've already gone to my head anyway. I'm drunk standing right here."

"Mushbrain. Remember the rules of deportment," Hutch reminded sotto-voce as the tram pulled up. Behind him he could hear Starsky muttering in an amused voice.

"No talking unless spoken to first, eyes down, no flirtin' with the girls, and obey Hutch." Starsky chuckled. "You can do this, yeah, no problem."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"What'd you get?" Hutch asked, coming out of the men's room.

"The gum you asked for, for takeoff." Starsky tossed the pack over. "And a novel to read." He held up the book, knowing Hutch would be amused by the title.

"'Whiphand'?" Hutch roared with laughter. "What's it about?"

"Racing. All Dick Francis' books are about racing." Starsky glanced around at the crowded airline gates. Seemed like everyone and his brother, were going off on a trip. Where were they all headed? There was little doubt that few of them, probably even 98 percent of the people on the same plane he was taking to the Caribbean, would end up naked and collared in the morning. The very notion sent a jolt through Starsky's groin and made his belly lurch. With the culmination of what he'd dreamed about so near at hand he felt skittish, like a performer with opening night jitters. Only he had to play his part for a whole week.

When Hutch had applied pressure on the sensitive flesh on the underside of his wrist, Starsky thought he'd blow a fuse right in Metro. It brought their whole experience with BDSM full circle, recalling the very first time they'd discussed the subject, when Hutch had squeezed his wrist just as tightly. And smacked his butt soon after, if Starsky remembered correctly. His butt certainly had no problem remembering.

Hutch had marked him two nights ago, and the welts still ran across his derriere like the red stripes on a flag. Now he knew why Hutch had insisted on marking him just after they'd gotten home, even though it was 10:45 at night, and both had been awake since five a.m. Now he understood a whole lot of things that had been mysterious in the last weeks. Hutch's insistence that he didn't know where Starsky's last two pair of clean socks were. His refusal to plan anything for the upcoming weekend; the two days Starsky had thought would be their only two days off.

"Did you have any change left?" Hutch was asking, obviously for the second or third time. "Starsky?"

"Huh?" Starsky jerked back into the airport, hearing the boarding announcement for the nonstop flight from Los Angeles to Miami at gate 79. He realized he was still clutching the three dollars and some odd cents left over from the 25 dollars Hutch had given him to use. The bills were crumpled and sweaty.

Hutch grimaced when he took them back, and Starsky felt strangely altered. Almost more than he had when he'd relinquished his possessions in the parking lot. This was his life now. He did what Hutch told him to do. He had no rights or privileges except those given to him by his master, such as being allowed to go into the airport newsstand on his own. Once they landed on the island--which Hutch said wouldn't be until Thursday morning, he wouldn't even have an identity beyond Davey, Ken Hutchinson's slave. His identifying marks; a moon and star tattoo, and four fading welts on his backside. Well, and those noticeable scars across his chest. Did those count?

"Starsky, you all right?" Hutch asked softly, picking up the carryon.

"Just kinda…overwhelmed, I guess." Starsky shrugged, holding his novel to his chest like an armor plate "It's an adventure. Never know what's around the bend until you get there, huh?"

"You trust me?"

"Always, Master," Starsky whispered the last word. "I belong to you, body and soul."

Once on board, Starsky was pleased to note that he and Hutch had two seats together. It was one of the smaller jets, without the big central bank of seats. Instead, there were two seats on the left side of the plane, and three on the right. Starsky sat by the window watching the runway drop away from the silver wings as the airplane roared straight up toward the sky. Since take-off time was six p.m., they would arrive in Miami at the ungodly hour of 2:24 in the morning. Their connection to St. Thomas didn't take off until 4:30, and they'd arrive in the islands just over an hour later. Then there was another smaller propeller plane to the private isle of St. Marquis.

With his life in Bay City receding, Starsky could feel his submissive headspace surfacing, allowing him to relax. He looked over at his beautiful blond speaking with the stewardess about their drinks, and got a little breathless. Suddenly he wanted everything right now, wishing Hutch could have buckled on the collar or some of the cuffs before they took off.

The flight attendant returned a few minutes later bearing a small tray with two drinks, bags of peanuts, and a large blue blanket. "Anything else I can help you with, sir?" she asked, obviously flirting.

"No, we'll be fine for now," Hutch assured her blandly. "What's the meal this evening?"

"We have chicken cordon bleu or beef teriyaki." She smiled, standing against the edge of Hutch's seat so that her leg touched Hutch's arm.

Starsky wanted to say something, divert her attention. He was the one who usually flirted with women they didn't know, waitresses and shop keepers, not Hutch. He was the one those come-hither eyes were often focused on. Not that he wanted her attention that badly, he just wanted it directed at someone other than his master.

"We'll both have the chicken," Hutch said smoothly, moving just enough that his sleeve no longer came in contact with her thigh.

That meant he was practically in Starsky's lap in the narrow seats, but Starsky didn't mind at all.

"We'll be serving in about 45 minutes, then," she said more coolly. "Just before the movie starts."

"Thank you." Hutch gave her that angel halo smile that always kept the women swooning. Starsky would have spit nails, except that smile was suddenly directed at him, and Hutch was pushing both drinks at him. "Hold these while I spread the blanket over our knees."

"You cold?"

"Nope." Hutch arranged the square of blue wool over them and then brought down the collapsible trays to hold their drinks. "To new adventures," he said, tapping his plastic cup with Starsky's.

Tasting his, Starsky discovered he had Coke. Hutch was being nice to him, which in itself was highly suspicious. He studied the strong nose and broad forehead of the handsome man next to him. Would this vacation change them in ways they never expected, or would it only serve to strengthen the relationship they'd forged against all odds?

Who would ever have expected that Rachel Starsky's son, plucked off the streets of New York and sent to sunny California to keep him out of a gang, would end up secretly married to his very male police detective partner, the son of a well-to-do family from Duluth, the son favored to follow his father into the banking business? And that when both of them came together, sparks would ignite a passion so strong that an assassination attempt couldn't fell it? Much less that they'd find a mutual love of leather, bondage and domination?

His breath once again stolen from him, Starsky finished his bubbly soda about the same time Hutch finished whatever he was drinking. Hutch piled the cups together to have space to dig through his carryon. Starsky tried to pretend to read his book, but his curiosity was piqued well and proper. Hutch hadn't brought the gym bag he usually stored their sex toys in, but Starsky had a feeling that the contents of that battered bag had just been transferred into this newer one. Hutch finally found what he was looking for and immediately slipped it under the edge of the blanket before Starsky really had a good look.

Something rounded and leather was thrust into his lap under the blanket, and Starsky giggled, feeling like he was playing some secret game in seventh grade.

"Put those on," Hutch said quietly.

By feel, Starsky sorted out that he had one wrist cuff and one ankle cuff. The wristlets were smaller and slightly thinner than the anklets. He wiggled around until he had his right leg up on his left knee and easily buckled on the symbol of his slavery under the cover of blue wool. The wrist cuff was even easier, but when he started to place it on the right arm, to use his left hand to buckle with, Hutch stopped him.

"Put it on the left," he whispered, and transferred the cuff over, buckling it easily.

By wearing only one, with his jeans and black, short sleeved t-shirt, Starsky looked more like a biker type than a slave submitting to his master.

"I was missing those," Starsky agreed, enjoying the tight feel of the leather against his skin. He only wished he could have the other pieces of the set.

Dinner was served, and the movie started. The main cabin lights dimmed with most of the passengers donning headphones to watch the film, but Hutch hadn't bought any. Starsky had already seen 'Gallipoli' in the theater, so he kept one eye on the screen while he finished his meal. It wasn't until after the stewardess passed by to collect the trays that Hutch shifted in his seat. He threaded the fingers of his right hand through the fingers of Starsky's left one, smiling like a cat who was about to get his favorite dose of catnip. With languid movements Hutch maneuvered their hands under the edge of the blanket and deposited Starsky's into his lap, freeing his fingers and directing them to the zipper of his fly.

"Ever heard of the mile high club, Starsk?" Hutch said, barely audible over the roar of the jet engines.

Starsky stared straight into those sky blue eyes, his heart pounding with excitement. They were near the front of the cabin, with only one row in front before the first class section, and the rest of the plane behind them. The flight attendants seemed to have retired to the back end for their meal, and most of the passengers were caught up in the exploits of the Australian army. It was the perfect time.

Using the cuffed left hand, Starsky pulled Hutch's zipper down and slipped his fingers through the slit in his boxers. The moment he felt that warm, solid, pulsing length, Starsky sighed, so happy to have this wonderful, tantalizing moment of illicit intimacy. He rubbed his thumb along the prominent vein, feeling the whole erection grow, then fished around in back until he could give some attention to the heavy sack. Hutch gasped softly when Starsky lightly rolled the testicles around in his palm, and Starsky almost laughed aloud when his handful quivered and tightened in response to his touch. He transferred back to the cock, stroking his palm down in a rhythmic massage that had Hutch purring under his breath. The scratchiness of the blanket on the back of Starsky's hand and the hard warmth on the front sent chills up the hairs on both of his arms. This was the sort of thing that got his adrenaline pumping like he was still a teenager seeing a girl's tits for the first time.

Somewhere in the back of the plane a passenger coughed, and a baby snuffled, but Starsky concentrated on his mission, to make Hutch fly without wings. Pushing a finger up under the foreskin, Starsky felt the glans flare and push against his hand, and used the fluid leaking from the end to lubricate his movements so that he could increase the speed.

Hutch jerked his hips, hissing, and clamped one hand over his mouth, halfway between ecstasy and laughing, which set Starsky off. He had to bite his lower lip to stop himself from giggling, and was glad to notice a loud explosion on the movie screen. Even if he and Hutch were making a small amount of noise, Mel Gibson was making more.

Aware that Hutch was very close to completion, Starsky clamped down his hand very quickly, then rubbed briskly twice down the full expanse of Hutch's penis. That was it, Hutch sucked in a breath of air, grasping Starsky's left arm so tightly Starsky was sure he'd cut off the circulation. Suddenly wondered belatedly how he was going to catch the semen about to spurt, Starsky grabbed the brown paper bag from the magazine pocket and had it under the blanket in a trice. Hutch came, with a panting sigh, his grip loosening on Starsky's arm.

At that moment, the pilot came on the overhead speaker to announce that they were over the Grand Canyon, even though it was really too dark to see much out of the right side of the plane.

Starsky broke into giggles then, slumping back helplessly in his seat while Hutch used a napkin to clean up the last of the evidence under the blanket, and zip himself up.

"Don't know whether we're a mile up," Starsky whispered wickedly. "But we did it across two states!"

"Depending on which part of the Grand Canyon we're crossing, it could almost be three states."

"Hey," Starsky said with an inspirational thought. "Maybe we can set a goal?"

"To do it in every state in the US?" Hutch nodded at the idea. "Good plan. For now we can count Utah and Arizona, but someday we'll have to go back and do it on the ground there, too."

"Can we do it in Florida? Before we leave for St. Thomas?" Starsky proposed. "Just to get a jump on the count."

"That requires even more planning than this did." Hutch furrowed his brow, thinking. "The bathrooms are a little too public."

"One of them VIP lounges?"

"We don't have a membership to any of those places."

"The airport chapel is usually empty in the middle of the night."

"Starsky!" Hutch groaned. "Too profane for my taste, and those pews are hard on the back."

"Yeah, I didn't really think it was a good idea, doin' it in front of God gives me the creeps, anyway." Starsky agreed, trying to come up with a solution. He wanted to do this badly. Despite his now restricted state, he felt free to flaunt conventional mores and accepted social decorum, as if having left their public cop selves behind, they could change everything about themselves.

"Starsky, that's ridiculous. If you believe in a higher power, then we're always doing it in front of Him."

"Then in His house," Starsky clarified. "But Hutch, do you think…that God cares how we do it?"

"No, not even with the minister in Duluth speaking out on television about the evils of gays," Hutch answered, and the teasing light had disappeared from his eyes.

Distressed that he'd brought up such a controversial and troubling subject, Starsky took Hutch's hand under the blanket again, re-establishing their link.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to get all guilt-ridden about it." Hutch gave him half a smile. "I've come to terms that the religion I was raised in wouldn't accept me living with you, much less keeping you in…" He didn't say the word, but ran his fingers over Starsky's leather bracelet. "But Starsk, if God cared that much about whether men love other men and women love women, then why would it have continued for centuries? If it was such a bad--or damaging thing, it would have been bred out of us long ago. Homosexuality can't die because it's part of who some men and women are, not something some evil gay man taught me when I was in short pants."

"I dunno," Starsky said lightly, bumping his shoulder with Hutch's. "Some evil gay man smacked me on the butt a couple a months ago, and taught me to love kneelin' at his feet, and I've never looked back.

"I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks," Hutch smirked.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The airport in Florida was packed with people because two planes landed at the same moment, but very quickly most passengers scurried to the baggage area, leaving a handful waiting for the early morning flight to St. Thomas. The unfortunate news that a squall over the Caribbean had delayed the plane for over an hour reminded Hutch of Starsky's desire to fuck in Florida. The question again was, where? An airline terminal was not exactly the most private of places.

Leaving Starsky dosing over his novel, Hutch set off exploring, passing up a closed up bar, a hallway to the offices to airport personal, and a shoeshine kiosk. None of them suitable under any circumstances. About to give up his search, Hutch spied the perfect place. Not exactly a chapel, so no problem with offending any religious ideals, but still a quiet, empty room just made for an secret assignation.

"Starsky." Hutch jostled his partner, amused at the sleepy stare he got. "I want to show you something."

"What?" Starsky shook himself awake, the book dropping on the floor.

"Get the carryon, and follow me." Hutch enjoyed keeping Starsky in the dark. The room he'd selected had no attendant, and when he'd poked his head in, there were pillows mounded against one wall, and best of all, a single locking door. It was more perfect than he could have ever imagined.

"A meditation room?" Starsky read the small plaque on the door. "You know I ain't much for all that yogi stuff."

"Yoga," Hutch corrected automatically, taking the carryon. "Yogi was a bear."

"An' smarter than the average bear." Starsky walked in, looking around. Soft lighting from two tracks in the ceiling gave the room a soothing atmosphere.

Hutch locked the door behind them, summoning his inner dominant to the fore. He hadn't really needed to get totally into his role so far, but from now on, he wanted to feel the power, the right, to be the one in control.

He breathed in deeply, watching Starsky examine a small rack of literature on meditation, concentrating on how the muted light caressed his skin, and played games of highlight and shadow with his lover's wild curls. "On your knees, slave," Hutch said in a low, powerful voice.

Starsky looked startled, obviously not quite expecting this so soon, but he sank to his knees immediately.

"Who do you belong to?" Hutch asked, taking the collar out of the bag.

"You, master, body and soul," Starsky pledged with a radiant smile.

"Since we don't have a great deal of time," Hutch said. "I will put the collar right next to you for you to look at when I nail you in the ass. Do not make a sound, and don't come."

"Yes," Starsky said in the dreamy voice Hutch knew meant he was dropping deeply into submission.

Quickly piling cushions for Starsky to kneel on, Hutch pulled Starsky's jeans down just far enough to reveal the slightly furry globes of his butt. Just the sight had Hutch salivating, and he longed to ram himself in with a single hard thrust. As fun as that might be, it would be too hard on Starsky, who already had to sit on four pretty welts. Better to do it gently, and save the rougher stuff for when they were in their own cabana on the island. He grasped Starsky by the hips, covering the tattoo completely with his left hand, and went in carefully, letting Starsky get used to the intrusion before sliding completely in with a smooth motion. Starsky tensed, and relaxed repeatedly, his muscles squeezing until Hutch saw bright comets shooting across his retina.

Oh, yeah.

Damn, he could get used to this.

Starsky kneeling for him anytime, anywhere.

On the island, supposedly, a master could take his slave in front of the entire populace, not that Hutch ever considered that. He wasn't a prude, but there were certain things he wanted a modicum of privacy for. He just didn't think he could enjoy himself if a bunch of strangers were watching. On the other hand, what about public displays of bondage or pain play? A very good question, and one he hadn't entirely answered yet. But right now, there were more pressing issues to be…he chuckled to himself, discussed.

Thrusting harder, he felt the inner recesses of Starsky's body widen and pull him deeper. Starsky was shaking, panting like he'd just run a perp into the ground. He moaned with pleasure, rocking his hips to match Hutch's actions. Once again, for the second time that night, Hutch felt his balls pull up to his body, his whole being tensing up with the prelude to orgasm. It was such a magnificent, almost painful sensation, his brain shutting down for an instant, giving over to pure sensation. He wanted to howl and proclaim his ownership of this wonderful slave, but instead he slammed forward to mark his claim on the inside, with glorious abandon.

The deed had taken no more than five minutes, but Hutch wanted to curl up on the cushions and sleep. He'd had two fabulous orgasms in two states. If this was how the rest of the week went, he was going to love this vacation. Not that he was neglecting Starsky, no siree. Starsky would have his turn another time.

"Man, I think you get off on the whole thief in the dark thing," Starsky said weakly, pulling up his jeans.

"Did make it really hot, didn't it?" Hutch bent to kiss Starsky on the neck, inhaling the aroma of their sex. "Think we'd better make a pit stop in the john before we get on the plane, though."

"Changes my whole concept about meditation, I'll say that."

The trip to St. Thomas was uneventful, and a man in a blue tee shirt and white duck pants met them at the gate with a discrete sign which simply read 'Estate'. After verifying their names on his clip board, the young man led them across the tarmac to a private hanger. When they stepped outside the airport the temperature hit them like a physical blow. It was like walking through a solid wall of heat. Hutch almost wished he could strip off all his clothes right then and there, and somewhat envied Starsky. He would get to parade around St. Marquis in hardly anything.

"You suitcase will be collected for you by our handlers," Horace explained. "Please wait in the lounge until the plane is ready. Avail yourselves of any refreshments, and have your slave," he stared pointedly at Starsky, "aware that all rules are severely enforced on the island. Has he read the handbook?"

"I was going to give it to him now," Hutch agreed.

Horace nodded remotely, and left them alone.

"There's a handbook?" Starsky asked, following Hutch into the luxuriously appointed waiting area.

Coffee, croissants and fruit waited on a side table, and both men selected breakfast foods first. Once their hunger had been taken care of, Hutch handed over a blue covered book. Starsky took one look at the title and laughed, reading it aloud. "'A Treatise on the Fundamental Implications of Human Slavery and its Effect on Egalitarian Society'. Sounds like something we had t'read in the Academy."

"Yeah, well, think of it as going back to school for another degree," Hutch said. "It's not quite so scholarly inside, but Starsky, you mouth off to the wrong person, and it could get ugly."

"Yeah." Starsky's grin was lop-sided. "They shoulda just called it 'What you get demerits for' and be done with it." He opened the book and found a loose piece paper. "What's this?"

"I had to fill out our own interests, what we enjoyed, that kind of thing, and…" Hutch stopped, still unsure whether he should have put this part in. "I agreed that you would participate in a public bondage demonstration."

"In front of people?" Starsky squeaked.

"Yes." Hutch nodded, and knew suddenly that he had made a decision without even realizing it. "In Bay City I want to shout to the whole world that David Starsky is my willing slave, but I can't. There, on the island, I can at least show others, who'll understand, how proud--humbled--I am that I'm the only person in the world that you will submit to. Want to how them how beautiful you are naked. That ass alone should be immortalized."

"I think you just did, back in Florida." Starsky rolled his eyes, but there was a gleam of excitement there. "I just never thought much about bein' tied up, naked, in front of strangers."

"Technically strangers, but people in the community we've elected to be members of. In as much as I would have given anything to stay away from the whole Kirk case, the fact that Caress, and apparently the entire governing board of MAST respect our abilities, I realized that mattered to me."

"They accept us, even if we're cops, huh?" Starsky asked cheekily.

"Read the book, or you might find acceptance comes with a price," Hutch said dryly. He was tired after the long trip, and had very little sleep, but exhilarated, just the same. That something he'd dabbled in for so long could prove to be so vital and important to him was a revelation. Only a few years ago, he'd feared that all joy and excitement had gone out of his life. Police work was depressing, soul wearying, and devastating to a relationship. He'd lost numerous girlfriends to the life. Just when he'd been ready to chuck everything, Starsky had begun poking at him again. Not literally, but just by being there; the one constant in his life that kept him sane.

Especially after the-woman-who-will-remain-nameless, he'd recognized that Starsky was his guiding star, his one true friend, and although he'd only admitted it to himself then, his true love. Then the horror that was Gunther's attempt on Starsky's life, and everything changed. Like a curtain that had hidden the goodness from Hutch was pulled away, and everything got better. Oh, certainly not right away. They'd both gone through hell for a few months as Starsky recovered, but their mutual discovery of each other as lovers made every step so much easier. And now, jumping into BDSM with both feet, and eyes wide open, gave life such vibrancy. He truly woke up each morning wondering what the day would bring instead of wallowing in the 'what if's' of the past.

"We are ready to board the plane," Horace intoned, opening a door to the hanger. Beyond him, a small blue and white Lear jet with a script 'E' on the tail sat waiting. "Your luggage is already in the hold. May I take your tickets?"

Hutch handed them over, glancing at Starsky behind him. His slave looked uncharacteristically solemn, blue eyes staring at the plane that would take him to the island where he would suddenly become a piece of property, a commodity that some masters bought and sold as easily as a pair of shoes.

Not this master. Hutch took Starsky's hand, pulling him forward two steps until they were side by side. They walked up the short stairs to the door of the jet this way, despite the slight frown of disapproval from Horace.

The plane was beautifully appointed in shades of blue and white, with six seats, three on each side of the cabin. Small leather hassocks were situated beside each seat, and when Hutch examined the one nearest to him, he noticed the small 'D' rings situated all around the edge, for securing a slave. Probably not quite FAA regulations, but intriguing, just the same. There was also a round bed in the back of the plane, curtained off near the galley, for bed sports. A pert girl wearing a slave collar, and the blue short shorts and mini tank top of the Estate, welcomed them on board, and ducked her head in deference to Hutch's status. When he and Starsky were seated, she approached quietly.

"May I get you a drink before we take off, sir?"

Amused and slightly uncomfortable, Hutch thanked her, touching her hand gently. He assured her that he didn't need a thing. After checking his seatbelt, she went back to her little alcove. Across the aisle, Starsky snickered.

"What?" Hutch asked, bristling.

"Ain't going look like much of a master if you treat 'em all like fallen hookers who need an extra twenty," Starsky observed as the plane took off.

"That reminds me," Hutch snapped. He opened the carryon, getting out several items. As soon as they were completely airborne, Starsky was collared, wearing the other two cuffs and a ball gag.

For a few beats, those gorgeous blue eyes glared at Hutch over the wide leather band of the gag, before softening into something akin to lust. Chuckling, Hutch ran his thumb over Starsky's tight lower lip, wiping away some drool, amused that Starsky got so turned on by bondage. This was a new gag, bought especially for the trip, and it made Hutch just as hot, although he wasn't quite sure why. Something about the way Starsky's mouth was pulled wide around the pink ball, stretched almost to the point of grotesque, a parody of the way he always looked when sucking on Hutch's dick. Hutch spent several lovely minutes checking the buckle in the back, and playing with the lock on the collar.

"Give you time to finish the book in silence," he said, placing the handbook in Starsky's hands. The spine tapped against the chain connecting the cuffs, the same chain that was usually locked around Starsky's neck, causing it to swing. "And giving me something to nice to look at for the ride. By the way, you've earned that demerit you were talking about earlier."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"