Title: How the West Was Won

Authors: Rebelcat and Elizabeth Helena

Series: Starsky & Hutch

Rating: NC-17 due to hot man-on-man bedroom games.

Gen or Slash: Slash! Yes, Rebel and EH wrote 100% S/H.

EH: This may be sign of the apocalypse.

Rebel: You say that about everything.

EH: Your point being?

Warning: We wrote slash together. . . oh, not that kind of warning. Um, this story contains mild kink or medium kink, it all depends on the perverted eye of the beholder.

Spoilers: Fourth season, pre-Partners Without A Badge angst.

EH: Because, in our opinion, the fourth season is the slashiest.

Rebel: Starsky must love that moustache!

EH: Someone has too.

Rebel: Maybe it tickles?

Disclaimer: No harm was intended to our view that Starsky is the straightest man on the planet, it just happened while we watched Starsky’s Brother and Ninety Pounds of Trouble. Also, we don’t own them, or any of the items Starsky hides under his bed.

Rebel: Not that we’ll admit to.

EH: We have to protect our reputation after all.

Rebel: As a perverted housewife and her sock puppet?

EH: Protect our web mistress’ reputation?

Summary: S/H PWP w/ props and light b & d.

Dedicated to: CC, the sheriff of Me & Thee.

Beta: None, because this story already had too many cooks spoiling the stew.

Feedback/Critique: Yes please, other than theories that once Starsky was slashed with ducks, the apocalypse was a moot point.

Rebel: I thought that was a joke. But I liked the Starsky/squid story!

EH: Yet another sign of the apo—

Rebel: Look, if you drop this apocalypse stuff right now, I’ll write the damn Bodie/Doyle zombie fic you want.

EH: Dropped! [does a victory dance] By the way, DIALJ Round Robins don’t count!

Rebel: What? That’s not fair!

EH: Neither is inflicting this whole Pros discussion on S&H fans!

Rebel: Oh, all right. The further adventures of Borislav Putin it is.

Archiving: With the rest of our far more glashy and gen stories at:


How the West Was Won

“Well sir, I may not be a for real cowboy. . . But I am one hell of a stud!” ~Jon Voight

Hiding in plain sight. That was one of Starsky’s mottos. And was why The Box was nothing more than a plain, if very large, cardboard box with “Undercover Gear” written in black magic marker across the front flap. Pushing up the sleeves of his white sweatshirt, Starsky pulled it out from under his bed.

For as much as he liked to imagine his home was his castle, it was hardly equipped with a moat or sentries. If anything, both his and Hutch’s apartment might as well have a welcome mat out for every Bay City wacko searching for stolen diamonds or a missing million dollars.

Better to be safe than sorry, Starsky thought. Besides, a lot of the contents of The Box had served as real undercover gear at one time or another. Starsky unearthed a gray fedora, and gazed at it reminiscently.

Man, Hutch made one hot hitman.

But Hutch didn’t want to play that game anymore. Not since the Carlyle debacle. Then again, considering Hutch’s life had been saved by a sixteen year-old girl who then dismissed them both as ‘old guys’, maybe it was for the best. Starsky put the hat aside.

The label on The Box caught Starsky’s eye, and he snickered. Under-cover. That one never got old.

Starsky heard a key unlocking his front door. He didn’t stop what he was doing. After all, the sound of a long stride, a leather jacket tossed over the arm of his couch, and of a pistol in its holster being hung over the bedroom door were familiar.

“Let’s play cops and robbers,” said Starsky, still rummaging through The Box.

“We do that every day.” Hutch threw himself down on the bed. “For a living!”

“That’s ’cause we like it so much,” he countered, reasonably. Hutch’s tone hadn’t been encouraging, but he was on his stomach on Starsky’s bed.

Mixed messages, again.

“I’m getting tired of hearing you say ‘Spread ’em’,” Hutch grumbled.

“But you’re so sexy when you do!” Some days Hutch needed a bit more warming up than others. These days more often than not, but it was always worth it in the end.

Hutch was wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and brown cords, which meant that he’d showered and changed before coming over. Starsky wasn’t sure which was more of a turn on, the way the too tight corduroys showed off Hutch’s ass, or the thought of his partner naked in the shower.

“And the bloom’s off the Miranda rose, too,” continued Hutch. “If I ever hear you say I have the right to remain sexy again. . .”

“I thought that one was pretty clever myself.” Starsky reminded himself that some of the best sex he’d had in his life had been with Hutch.

Starsky returned his attention to The Box. He pulled a jump rope out, and immediately put it on the discard pile. Hutch was far too grumpy for those kinds of games. Besides, last time he’d threatened to tie Starsky up with it.

Not that I would have objected. . .

Starsky held up a pair of pointy plastic ears. “Kirk and Spock?”

“Too illogical.”

Hutch was smirking. Starsky could hear it in his voice. Just for that, he said, “Hey, I know, elves and forest rangers!”


Starsky paused, fingering the red negligee. Variety was the spice of life. That was another one of Starsky’s mottos. But no, he thought, when Hutch was in one of his moods, it wasn’t even worth asking about cross-dressing. He contemplated the plastic sword that lay underneath the lingerie.

Glancing at Hutch spread over his sheets, Starsky was inspired. “I’ve got it. I’ll be a sexy gladiator and you can be. . . you know, one of those old Roman guys.”

Hutch rolled onto his side, his head propped up on his hand. “Old?”


“You know what I meant, ancient or somethin’.”

“Ancient.” Hutch sighed. “That’s so much sexier than old.”

“Geez, do you even want to have sex tonight?”

Hutch gave him a slow smile that made Starsky grateful he was already on his knees. “A Roman senator with a moustache?”

“Why not?” Starsky treated Hutch to his best leer. “Just wrap yourself in a sheet, and then. . .” He lowered his voice to a growl, “I’ll unwrap you.”

Hutch raised an eyebrow. “Sounds promising.”

Starsky grabbed the plastic sword and jumped to his feet.

“Except Romans were clean shaven.”

Starsky froze. I love my partner, Starsky reminded himself. Loved and lusted after, although there were times he just wanted to strangle the contrary bastard.

However, compromise was the best policy. Which was his motto number. . . something. He’d lost count years ago. It didn’t help that his relationship with Hutch had added considerably to the list.

He’d learned early on that compromise was necessary if he ever wanted to get any. Seducing Hutch took special care. His partner wasn’t just some giggling stewardess he could steamroll with his charm. Push too hard, and Hutch would leave.

Not permanently, of course. And not even angrily, which Starsky found more unsettling than a proper knock-down brawl.

Starsky dropped the sword back into the box, and spotted a bright red bandanna. “How about this, pardner, you can be a cowboy, and I’ll be – another cowboy. Cowboys had mustaches. Hell, with that plaid shirt you’re halfway there already.”

“I thought the game was Cowboys and Indians.” Hutch turned over onto his back, folding his hands behind his head.

Starsky could see that Hutch was more interested than he pretended. “You’d make one pale-faced Indian, and anyway, cowboys always have more fun.” Starsky grabbed the bandanna and tied it over his face, giving Hutch his best “evil train robber” leer.

It had no visible effect on Hutch. Probably because the bandanna hid most of it.

“And the Wild West was full of Jewish cowboys.”

Starsky pulled the bandanna down to his neck. “You bet! Don’t you know that blue jeans were invented by a couple of Jewish immigrants in California? And hey, that gives us names and everything! You can be Mr. Levi and I’ll be Mr. Strauss.”

Starsky pounced, landing astride Hutch’s thighs. Sometimes the direct approach worked best with this particular turkey. He undid the top button of Hutch’s flannel shirt.

Flannel had to be the most erotic fabric on earth, Starsky thought. At least when Hutch was wearing it.

“Wait, I need to get into character!” protested Hutch. “What’s my motivation?”

Not getting strangled, Starsky thought. But aloud he said, “Your motivation is sex, dummy!”

“Yeah, but–”

Starsky slapped his hands down on Hutch’s chest, pushing himself back onto his feet. “That’s it! You get in character. I’m gonna make myself a sandwich.”

Because there were times when you just had to cut your losses and make the best of a bad situation. Was that one or two mottos, Starsky wondered as he yanked open the fridge and pulled out the roast beef.

He resisted the temptation to take out his frustration on the food, as he wanted to enjoy something tonight. Hutch had been running hot and cold lately, and it worried Starsky. He hoped his partner wasn’t having second thoughts about this latest addition to their friendship.

Heck, Starsky told himself, if anyone should be contemplating running for the hills, it ought to be him. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d ever done this before, at least, not with a guy. However, he was pretty sure Hutch had. Well. . . the guy thing, not the whole dress up thing. Not that it was something they talked about. It had just happened, and other than Nick’s bad timing deciding to visit the following week, everything had been as smooth as. . . one of Hutch’s brushed cotton shirts.

Except that he was in his kitchen making a sandwich, instead of feasting on every inch of Hutch he could get his mouth on.

God, I hope we don’t have to talk about it. We’ll never have sex again.

He heard Hutch come up behind him, but he didn’t look around. He sliced the sandwich instead. Hutch’s hand landed on his. His breath was warm on Starsky’s neck.

Hutch’s voice deepened into a slow drawl. “Looks like I caught me a cattle rustler. Nice and slow there, hombre. Put down the knife. I got a different kind of meat for you.”

Starsky fought to restrain a grin as he laid the knife on the countertop.

This is why it’s worth it.

Keeping any hint of triumph from his voice, Starsky asked, “Is it kosher?”

Hutch pressed close against his back. His hands slid down Starsky’s body, his fingers dipping into the front of his jeans. “It’s circumcised. Does that count?”

“Close enough!” Starsky turned around in Hutch’s arms, eagerly finding his lips. He spared one brief thought for the roast beef sandwich, before deciding it didn’t matter.

Seize the moment.

Yeah, that was a great motto. Besides, Starsky thought as he undid the rest of the buttons on Hutch’s shirt, there were all sorts of other great things he could seize while he was at it. He peeled Hutch’s shirt off while backing him out of the kitchen. Hutch was similarly busy, and Starsky’s sweatshirt ended up on the living room floor.

Hutch’s shoulders hit the bookshelf beside the bedroom doorway. Starsky heard a loud thud as something fell.

Hutch’s fingers paused in their task of undoing Starsky’s belt buckle. “I think that was one of your ships,” he said, his voice sounding strained.

“I’ll build another!” He shoved him through the door, and watched with gleeful satisfaction as Hutch landed on the bed with a bounce. Starsky was poised to leap after him when he remembered something.

“Wait a sec!” Starsky turned and dove headfirst into The Box instead.

“What? Get back here!”

It was gratifying to hear frustration in Hutch’s voice for a change. Starsky dug down toward the bottom, throwing items to either side. “If you’re the lawman, and I’m the cattle rustler, then you gotta cuff me.”

“Starsk, no. . .”

“I promise, it won’t be like last time!”

He pulled his recent purchase out of the box with a triumphant flourish. Grinning, Starsky waited for Hutch’s reaction.

Hutch did not look impressed. “They’re pink. And fluffy.”

Puzzled, Starsky looked at the cuffs. Hadn’t Hutch always said that functionality was more important than superficial appearance? It was like a Hutchinson motto. “The store didn’t have any other colors in stock. But I’ve got a zebra striped pair on order. These will just have to do in the meantime.”

“No cowboy would wear those!” Hutch’s mouth tightened stubbornly, his mustache prickling.

Starsky made a dismissive sound. “A colorblind cowboy would.”

“They’re still fluffy.”

“Pretend they’re rabbit! You shot and skinned it yourself.”

“Right,” said Hutch, sarcastically. “Because the Wild West was overrun with pink bunnies!”

Starsky stood and whipped off his red bandanna. “You wouldn’t worry so much if you were blindfolded.”

Hutch’s eyes widened, and then narrowed again. “Wait a minute. You’re going to be cuffed, and I’ll be blindfolded? How will that work?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Starsky leaned over him, dangling the cuffs from one hand. “We’re rough, tough men of action.”

“Wearing pink, fuzzy handcuffs.” Hutch took the cuffs from him and held them up disdainfully.

Time to try a different tactic. Starsky sat down next to Hutch. “I do not want to have to explain to Dobey again about the suspicious chafing on my wrists.”

Hutch smirked. “Actually, the dominatrix stewardess was a pretty funny story.”

“Look pilgrim, if you don’t want to end up blindfolded at the bottom of the stairs again, you better surrender right now.”

“I’m not the one who–”

Starsky seized the cuffs and pounced on Hutch. Flipping him over onto his stomach, he grabbed his wrist.

“Hey, I thought I was sheriff!” Hutch struggled to roll back over.

Starsky leaned down and spoke into Hutch’s right ear. “’Cause of all yer hemming and hawing, I just got the drop on you. Now, I’m taking a lawman hostage.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hutch twisted, bucking up beneath him.

Starsky felt his groin make sudden contact with Hutch’s corduroy covered rear end. Starsky squeaked as his cock abruptly went from mildly interested to hard as rock. Distracted, he lost his balance, and in seconds flat, Hutch had reversed their positions. Starsky twisted, but Hutch yanked his arms back and fastened the pink fuzzy cuffs firmly around his wrists.

Yeah, that’s more like it, Starsky thought gleefully. A shiver of excitement traveled up his spine as he waited to see what Hutch was going to do with him.

“Hmm, I reckon that might not be enough,” Hutch said. “You’re a slippery varmint, and there’s roast beef – I mean, cattle what needs protecting.”

A prickle of apprehension wove its way into Starsky’s stomach. “What you gonna do?” He could feel himself, hard against the mattress, aching to be manhandled.

But Hutch was leaving! Starsky rolled onto his side. “Hey!”

Hutch was crouched down beside the bed. He stood, the skipping rope in his hands. “Did I ever tell you I used to do calf roping when I was a kid?”

“You wouldn’t!” Starsky swung his legs off the bed and made a break for the door. Hutch wrapped a long arm around his waist and swept him back onto the bed.

Starsky landed on his back. “You wouldn’t!”

“It was your idea,” said Hutch. He grabbed Starsky’s ankle and turned it, forcing him over onto his stomach again.


“Don’t be such a baby,” said Hutch, his knee in the small of Starsky’s back. “You’re a rough, tough cattle rustler, remember?”

The pillows muffled Starsky’s yells. Hutch was pitiless. “Half hitch knots. We called it two wraps and a hooey,” he said, as he quickly whipped the rope around Starsky’s ankles and through the chain of the cuffs. “But I think I’ll leave you a bit of slack. Wouldn’t want you getting all cramped up.”

“What kinda lawman are you?” hollered Starsky.

“The best kind,” said Hutch, sliding his hand down beneath Starsky. “Now, these jeans are going to be a problem. . .”

“Don’t you dare cut them off. I know where you sleep!”

Hutch rolled him over onto his side, and with a smirk, cupped his hand over Starsky’s crotch. Starsky whimpered, trying to press forward. But Hutch moved his hand. He slid two fingers behind Starsky’s zipper, and slowly eased it down. Starsky groaned, almost losing it right then and there.

“I oughta cite you for public indecency,” said Hutch, sounding breathless himself. “What’d you do? Run into a passel of underwear rustlers?”

Starsky wanted to make a smart ass comment about underwear being for lily-livered varmints. But Hutch was conducting a thorough search, as if the missing underwear might be hidden somewhere up his rear end. As a result, stringing coherent syllables together was beyond Starsky.

In fact, tied hand and foot, there was nothing Starsky could do but focus on his breathing as Hutch worked his pants over his hips and down to his knees, where they entangled Starsky’s legs even more.

There was only one part of Starsky left with any freedom of movement, and Hutch was ignoring it. The bastard was changing the rules of the game!

Starsky cracked his eyes open and took a good look at Hutch. He was flushed, with a look of intense concentration on his face.

Well, buckaroo, two can play it this way. . .

Hoarsely, Starsky said, “Wait! You gotta blindfold yourself.” He used his chin to point at the crumpled bandanna on the edge of the bed.

Hutch paused, his hand on Starsky’s hip. “Why?”

“Aw, c’mon Hutch!” Starsky whined.

“Make me,” said Hutch.

Starsky pulled on the rope binding him, but whatever that hooey thing was Hutch had done to him, it was solid.

Hutch’s forefinger lightly grazed Starsky’s groin, his eyes never leaving Starsky’s face. “I can wait all night.”

He might be able to, but Starsky sure couldn’t. It was time to wave the white flag, figuratively speaking. “I can’t make you do anything, Sheriff Hutchinson.”

But I can lead him into an ambush. . .

Hutch chuckled. “I’m going to remember you said that.” He dipped his head and dragged his tongue across Starsky’s right nipple. Starsky felt his skin prickle at the contact, the sensation heightened to unbearable intensity.


Hutch lifted his head, his fingers resting on the inside of Starsky’s thigh. “Give me a good reason,” he whispered.

“You were blinded in a tragic gunpowder accident.” Starsky spoke fast, his words tumbling over each other. “Now you’re trapped in a cave with your prisoner, that’s me, and there’s a snowstorm outside, and we have to get naked and huddle together to keep from freezing to death. And, uh, there’s parts of you that need extra special attention to keep them from freezing.”

Starsky bent forward as far as the rope would allow and tried to catch the zipper of Hutch’s cords with his teeth.

“Oh God,” groaned Hutch. Grabbing the bandanna, he said, “Okay! One blind lawman coming up!”

Starsky tipped his head back and watched with delight as Hutch fastened the cloth over his eyes. “No cheating,” he said.

Hutch obediently pulled the end of the bandanna down over his nose. His hair flopped over the edges and was caught in the knot at the back of his neck. Starsky felt like humming with pleasure at the sight.

The zipper was no problem. Hutch helped with it, quickly pushing his cords down over his hips, and kicking them off onto the floor along with his Fruit of the Looms. Damn, Hutch looked hot, buck naked except for the blindfold – and his white cotton socks. This was even better than the time he’d dressed up like a hit man.

However logistical difficulties cropped up immediately.

“Ow!” yelped Starsky. “Watch where you put that thing!”

“How can I watch anything?” asked Hutch reasonably.

“Just don’t stick your dick up my nose!”

Starsky heard Hutch chuckle. “It’s a hard target to miss.”

“I’ll give ya a target!” Starsky eyed Hutch, picking his moment right, and lunged forward. He managed to wrap his lips around the head of Hutch’s cock for a fraction of an instant, before Hutch fell back laughing.

“Hey, come back here!”

“Where are you?” Hutch’s hand landed clumsily on the side of Starsky’s face. “Oh, here you are.” He shoved Starsky back onto his side.

Starsky shivered as Hutch felt his way slowly down his chest. “Hurry up!”

Hutch ignored his plea. He had a relaxed half smile on his face as he mapped the terrain of Starsky’s torso with hands. With a tantalizingly light touch, Hutch traced over Starsky’s hip, and continued down his thigh, smoothing the hairs on his right leg as he pushed his jeans down to his ankles.

Starsky stared at the top of Hutch’s head, groaning as he felt warm breath on his groin. “Hutch!”

But Hutch continued down, and Starsky wondered if he’d missed his target. “Hutch?”

A light shove had him all the way over, his hands an uncomfortable lump under the small of his back and his ankles pressing into his rear. His knees were splayed open, and he could feel the outline of the rope beneath him. Hutch had somehow tucked the handles to the sides, which was quite considerate of him. Starsky craned his neck, trying to see what Hutch was doing down there. He could feel his moustache, tickling, brushing. . .

Then Hutch licked the inside of his left thigh, and he forgot all about the bizarreness of his position.

Starsky’s hips bucked upwards, helplessly, straining against his bonds. “Jesus, Hutch!”

“You like that?” asked Hutch, smugly.

Starsky felt the feather light brush of Hutch’s hair, just before his mouth touched the inside of his other thigh. He groaned helplessly. Hutch was teasing him, working his way slowly up, and Starsky didn’t think he could stand it.

Damn it, do me. Now!

“Hutch,” he gasped again. It was the only word he could say anymore.

Hutch’s cheek was brushing against Starsky’s cock. His moustache felt like a thousand tiny needles, and his breath was hot. Starsky closed his eyes, nearly crying with frustration. Hutch’s tongue was touching him everywhere except where he really needed it.

A small sharp nip of Hutch’s teeth nearly sent him through the ceiling. His gasp became a yell as finally he was engulfed by the wet heat of Hutch’s mouth.

Yeah, that’s it!

Starsky wanted to make the good feeling last. He really did, but he couldn’t help it. He arched upward, feeling his balls tighten.

“Huuuutch!” Starsky came, feeling Hutch’s mouth tighten around him as he swallowed. Then the sliding withdrawal of warmth was replaced by cool air, as Hutch pulled away.

Starsky felt like he’d been turned inside out and then turned right side in again. All he could do was lie back on his hands and pant.

Hutch gently squeezed his knees. Starsky opened his eyes to find Hutch looking down at him affectionately, the bandanna lying loosely around his neck.

“You liked that, huh?” asked Hutch. Without waiting for an answer, he helped Starsky over onto his side and began loosening the jump rope.

Speaking took some effort. “It was okay,” Starsky managed. His voice sounded gravelly, giving lie to his casual words.

The rope slipped free. Starsky lifted his feet a few inches, as Hutch worked his jeans off. Relieved, Starsky stretched his legs and rotated his ankles.

“Just okay?” Hutch sounded amused.

Still cuffed, Starsky rolled over onto his knees and faced Hutch. He twisted his wrist, feeling along the inside of the left cuff. “Barely passable.”

“Maybe I won’t undo those cuffs,” said Hutch. “I think there’s a cattle rustler hain’t learned his lesson yet.”

Starsky found what he was searching for, and the cuffs came undone. He kept his hands behind his back, grinning. “Oh, I don’t know. Seems to me there’s a certain lawman who’s getting too big for his britches.”

Starsky dove forward, knocking Hutch backwards onto the bed. Hutch’s yelp was deeply rewarding, and Starsky used the element of surprise to get a good hold on his wrist. Rotating Hutch’s arm, Starsky flipped him face down on the bed, and quickly cuffed him.

“Hey, wait a goddamn minute!”

Starsky reached for the jump rope. “Turnabout is fair play, buddy!”

Another great motto to live by, Starsky thought. He grabbed one of Hutch’s flailing feet. “I may not know how to rope a calf, but I know a lot about trussing up turkeys.”

“But you were cuffed!”

Starsky ran a hand over the fuzzy restraints, appreciating the way Hutch twitched when his fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. “These cuffs have a trick release. Which I know, and you don’t.”

Hutch groaned, pushing his face into the mattress.

Inspired, Starsky untied the bandanna from Hutch’s neck and refastened it over his eyes.

“Oh now, this isn’t fair!” Hutch twisted his head from side to side, trying to slough the cloth off.

Starsky tightened the knot. “Who said anything about fair?” Leaning down, he whispered. “I’m the bad guy, remember?”


“Do I gotta gag you, too?”

Hutch made a despairing sound, low in his throat. But he stopped trying to rub the blindfold off.

Reveling in his control, Starsky straddled Hutch’s thighs. Leaning forward he pressed his thumbs down into the familiar indent where Hutch’s neck met the back of his skull. Reaching around his head, Starsky began to rub Hutch’s temples with his fingertips.

Hutch gave a shuddering sigh, and Starsky felt some of the tension beneath him ease.

“Okay,” Hutch whispered, his face still buried in the sheets.

Starsky just smiled, and continued his massage. Taking his time, he worked his way down Hutch’s neck to his shoulders. He found real pleasure in handling Hutch like this. The body beneath his hands was his to play with, from the flat planes of his back, to the curve of his ribs.

Putty in my hands.

Starsky reached the small of the back, and Hutch suddenly jerked.

Yeah, that’s the spot.

Moving lower, to just above Hutch’s rear end, he pressed down with the heels of his palms. Hutch bucked beneath him.

“Oh, God. Do that again!”

Starsky obliged him a few more times. Judging that Hutch was beginning to adjust to the sensation, he leaned forward and kissed the small of Hutch’s back. His hands slid down, kneading the softer flesh of Hutch’s ass.

Hutch growled, pushing back, trying to lift himself off the bed. His fingers clawed futilely within the cuffs. Starsky smiled at the sight, and moved up to take Hutch’s right index finger into his mouth, and sucked on it. Hutch arched up beneath him, pulling his knees up under his stomach, his rear end pushing against Starsky’s groin.

Starsky was too spent to react fully, but it still felt great. Rising up onto his knees, he leaned forward and dragged his tongue up the inside of Hutch’s wrists. The fuzzy cuffs tickled his tongue.

This was the best six dollars I ever spent.

The top of Hutch’s head was pressed into the mattress. He gave a muffled groan. “Starsk, please. . .”

“Please what?” Ice cream, thought Starsky, visualizing Hutch served up on a platter.

“Please, anything!”

“I thought I couldn’t make you do anything,” said Starsky. With his tongue he traced the bowed line of Hutch’s spine, all the way down to the thin, sensitive skin under his tailbone.

“I was wrong!” shouted Hutch. “I’ll do anything. Just. . . Please!”

“Please, what?” asked Starsky, again. Maybe with cherries on top.

Hutch’s answer was inarticulate, but very suggestive. Impressed by his partner’s non-verbal eloquence, Starsky licked his palm and reached around to take Hutch in hand. Hutch thrust desperately against his fist.

Cowboys were obviously made to be ridden, Starsky thought, especially when they had their asses up in the air, but that particular horse had already left his stable.

On the other hand. . .

Starsky suddenly let go of Hutch, ignoring his outraged protests. He sat back and contemplated the possibilities. Hutch was up on his knees, using the top of his head to brace himself without hands. The jump rope was still wrapped around his legs, though it had worked its way down to his ankles.

There was just enough room for Starsky to slide in sideways under Hutch’s belly, assuming his partner could hold the position. Lying down, Starsky scooted over until he was looking up at Hutch’s stomach.

Nice view, he thought, feeling a twitch in his exhausted cock.

“What the fuck are you doing!”

“Just don’t fall on me.” Turning his head, Starsky nibbled a bit of the nearest thigh.

“Don’t!” gasped Hutch.

“Don’t what?” asked Starsky, with mock innocence. He let his tongue trail up the inside of Hutch’s thigh, stopping just short of the obvious target.

New motto: revenge is a dish best served immediately.

Hutch whimpered. His legs began to shake.

“You gotta hold it, buddy,” said Starsky. He licked a drop of salty liquid off the tip of Hutch’s cock, and felt him shudder. “I know you can do it.”

Hutch began to swear. Starsky licked him again, and chuckled as Hutch cut himself off with a strangled moan.

“Tut, tut. Where’d you learn language like that?”

“Goddammit Starsky, if you don’t, I’m gonna –”

Starsky reached up and grabbed Hutch’s cock, pulling him into his mouth. Hutch’s shout was music to his ears. He felt the cock in his hand pulse, once, twice. . . and his mouth filled with the taste of bitter salt. Hutch pulled back abruptly and Starsky lost his grip. Warm liquid splashed on his cheek. He coughed, having swallowed the wrong way.

Hutch toppled over onto his side. “Ah, sorry.”

Starsky pushed himself up onto his elbow, rubbing his cheek clean. “I think I just got deputized!”

Hutch blinked, looking dazed. “But you’re the bad guy. And if I’m the sheriff why would I. . .”

Starsky nodded encouragingly. He could almost see the gears turning slowly in Hutch’s head.

“God, no.” Hutch grimaced. “Don’t say it. . .”

“C’mon, pardner!” It wasn’t a motto, Starsky thought with a grin, but it was close enough. “This is how the west was really won!”