December 2nd- Pardon My French by Dawnwind

Starsky tipped back his bottle of Corona, savoring the cold beer going down his throat. Beside him, Hutch watched him with a fond grin, as if simply savoring the fact that they had the evening off, had eaten some fine steaks at Huggy’s cousin’s Bull on a Grill, and now were sitting oh-so-close in the back booth at the Pits.

The place was hopping, a few couples dancing between the closely placed tables and bumping into the pool table. Luckily, no one was currently wielding a pool cue. Two women in short-short hot pants leaned against the juke box, feeding it dimes whenever they located a song they liked.

Starsky grinned as the curly haired brunette wearing red shorts and shiny thigh-high boots wiggled her hips to the BeeGees’ falsettoing Night Fever. The taller blonde, in a blue halter top, striped hot pants, with espadrilles on her feet, looked on appreciatively, her eyes riveted on her friend.

“They’re a couple,” Starsky said into Hutch’s ear as Barry Gibb hit a high note. Hutch’s long fair hair tickled his nose.

“You think so?” Hutch said, raising his eyebrow, fist loose around the base of his beer bottle.

Made Starsky want to kiss him right there, at the Pits, something they’d vowed never to do. Not in public.

“Like us, you mean?” Hutch continued in his sly, teasing way. He swallowed a quick sip of beer. “You don’t think they’re simply best friends out on a hen’s night?”

“Who are you? Farmer Ken?” Starsky snorted, beer going up his nose, which did not feel great.

“What my mother always called her nights out with friends,” he clarified as the song ended.

The dancers didn’t seem to notice: several couples wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying to their own internal melodies.

The two women conferred, dark and light heads almost touching over the lit array of song choices. The brunette slipped in the coin and the music started up with a prolonged note from an electric organ, strummed guitar and heartbeat drums coming in fast.

“Hey sister, go sister, soul sister…” 

The look between the two amateur DJs held for a moment longer than necessary before the brunette wiggled her derriere seductively and shimmied to a table past Starsky and Hutch’s. The blonde followed more slowly, definitely enjoying the view.

“Yeah, they’re doing it,” Starsky said confidently, unable to stop dancing in his seat. The bouncy, bright song had that effect on him, especially with its alluring French lyrics. Always got him in the mood.

Huggy boogied past an oblivious couple wrapped around one another, never spilling a drop of beer from the mugs on his tray. He plunked the brews down on the table opposite Starsky where an older couple were eating peanuts. The gray haired man kept running his fingers along the pretty, silver haired woman’s wrist, even as he handed Huggy a couple dollar bills.

Love was definitely in the air.

“Voulez vous coucher avec moi?” Patti LaBelle warbled sensually.

“Hutch, you speak French.” It was more an establishing statement than a question. He knew the answer was yes, because Hutch had lived in France as a child when his father worked for a bank overseas. “What does…”

Hutch eyed him over the top of his beer before inserting the neck of the bottle between his lips and inflating his cheeks as if suctioning the contents down his throat.

Damn him. Starsky was immediately hard, panting with the abrupt shift of blood from his brain to his cock. His rock hard erection pressed against the fly of his jeans as if determined to escape and follow the beer past Hutch’s lips.

“Bastard,” Starsky said as Patti entreated her audience to “Coucher avec moi ce soir,” never taking his eyes off Hutch, sure he could feel those lips roam across his own body.

Hutch swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down the column of his neck. Starsky gulped air, squeezing his thighs together to catch the friction from his jeans on his swollen groin.

“Would you like to—” Hutch said with a tantalizing glint in his blue eyes. “Voulez vous.”

“Hutch,” Starsky hissed through clenched teeth, gripping the edge of the table. The grinding music was seeping into his skin, making him jittery.

“Coucher—” Hutch continued as if teaching elementary French. “Go to bed or sleep.”

He really was going to murder Hutch, right after he dragged him out of the Pits and into the back seat of the Torino.

“You try it,” Hutch urged, taking another long drink of beer, apparently oblivious to Starsky’s driving need.

“Vou-ley vou coo-shay.” Starsky bit off each word, pressing his left palm against the heated mound in his jeans. He didn’t want to shoot his load before Hutch could blow him but the likelihood of that happening was very real.

“Avec moi,” Hutch finished. “With me.”

“I knew that one.” Starsky bared his teeth, his pulse timed to the pounding beat of the song.

“So—” Hutch hummed with the last verse of the song. “Voulez vous coucher avec moi?”

“Ce soir!” Starsky grabbed his partner’s hand, all but dragging him from the table out the rear door.

They tumbled into the Torino’s spacious back seat, tearing at clothing and zippers with wild abandon. Starsky didn’t even give a single thought to anyone viewing their illegal behavior—the alley lights behind the Pits had been burned out for the better part of two years. He’d parked in the shadows out of habit.

He was panting audibly, back pressed against the left side of the car, when Hutch took possession of Starsky’s cock. It was as stiff as a rookie cop’s baton, and Hutch mimicked his earlier performance with the neck of the bottle, sucking with glee.

Starsky forgave Hutch every single nasty thing he’d thought about him inside the bar, thrusting into that warm, sweet, moist mouth. This was truly bliss, a gift from the gods of love. Tingly currents zapped from his cock through his core, leaving him vibrating like a strummed guitar string. The climax rolled over him in an effervescent wave, wiping out all desire to move. He had to use every ounce of energy to reach up and caress Hutch’s downy cheek, wiping his own juices from Hutch’s lip.

“Babe,” Starsky said softly, their mouths meeting for a kiss. That was all Starsky needed to revive his flagging spirits.

“Voulez-vous,” Hutch sang softly, but it wasn’t the disco tune they’d just been listening to. This had a more plaintive quality, a unique Hutchinson version of Abba’s pulse thumping hit.

“Ain’t no big decision, you know what to do…” He entwined his long fingers into Starsky’s curls, massaging his scalp while kissing him deeply.

Although his brain was more than half distracted with the succulent kisses, Starsky did know what to do. Now that his cock was satisfied, he applied himself to Hutch’s rampant erection. That sucker was huge, a handful and a half.

Starsky fit his palm around the plump ball sack and leaned down to take as much of the length in his mouth as possible. Hutch moaned, holding on tight to Starsky’s hair, pulling enough to cause sparkly points of arousing pain.

Chuckling, Starsky tried to hum to the tune Hutch was still half singing, intentionally creating a thrumming through Hutch’s cock. He knew that Hutch loved the sensation.

Hutch jerked and thrust, the song lyrics sounding jerky and disjointed. “La question c’est voulez-vous…”

Every once in a while, the thick crown poked the back of Starsky’s throat, but this wasn’t his first rodeo, and he knew how to ride that slippery bronco into submission. Hutch let out a strangled note, semen spurting against Starsky’s tongue, and he released the still pulsating penis.

Sagging into Starsky’s arms, Hutch was heavy with post-coital lassitude.

“Answer your question, blintz?” Starsky kissed him on the top of his head.

“Magnifique,” Hutch murmured.