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Summary: A disobedient padawan learns a lesson from his Master.
Of all the questions that Oorfo Den never wanted to ask "Who
will buy this Jedi?" had to be on the very top of that list.
He'd bartered in bodies, human and otherwise, for most of his
fifty-nine Standard years and never once found himself in such
a situation.
Stuck with a Jedi for sale.
He was in the Bantha droppings this time for certain.
It didn't help that this particular Jedi was extraordinarily
recalcitrant in a most passive-aggressive sort of way. Not
moving a muscle, not saying a word, the young man simply stared
at Oorfo with a singular pair of searing, blue-gray eyes.
Oorfo had heard tales of the Jedi -- how they could run at the
speed of a chaetoh, how they could levitate their bodies for
hours on end and how they could strangle a man to death without
laying so much as a hand on him. He had no ideas if these tales
were true or not but Oorfo hadn't taken any chances with this
one. Minutes after that damned Ruggarian slave hunter had
laughingly told him exactly what he'd gotten himself into,
Oorfo hadn't wasted a moment. On went the remote choke-collar
and razcuffs, down slammed the force field enclosure. Warned
the boy that at the first sign of Jedi trickery, the collar
would crush his windpipe, the cuffs would slice his hands off
at the wrists and that would be that.
And how did the Jedi reply? Knelt, closed his eyes and refused
to budge for almost two Standard days. It was as if Oorfo had
picked up a statue in some Dorgunian bazaar and brought it on
board as decoration. A naked and very decorative statue, of
course, but a statue nonetheless. By the second night, the Jedi
opened his eyes, drank a single sip from the water pipe and
began an unblinking examination of his surroundings, still not
moving a muscle, often staring straight at Oorfo, as if he
could see right into the depths of his soul.
It was eerie and disconcerting and made Oorfo want get rid of
him all the more ... and faster.
Oorfo spat, took another long swig of b'erza and spat again.
What to do with this strange, silent Jedi? What in G'omrm's
name to do?
Perhaps it would be best to foist him off on some unsuspecting
vice trader or maybe a Royal House that wanted particularly
dangerous novelty in a bedtoy. Oorfo had heard rumors of the
Hutt of Tatooine, how he enjoyed feeding Jedi to his hungry pet
Rancor, but, knowing the Hutt, Oorfo himself might end up being
the appetizer to a Jedi main course.
No, that wouldn't do. Not at all.
And hells be damned, couldn't simply let the Jedi go. The odds
were ten to one that he'd return with his fellows in arms and
put Oorfo out of business for good.
Another unacceptable option. No, the Jedi would have to be
gotten rid of and hopefully never be heard from again.
If only Oorfo could figure out some way to do it.
As if in answer, he heard a low beep over his comlink.
"MastaOr?"
He'd better look serious, Oorfo thought wryly, if he didn't
want his head blown off. Slave buying wasn't a ckalla bake at
the local ladies club. It was a rough business, this dealing
and trading in living flesh, and definitely not for the faint
of heart.
Or the light of credit pouch. "Well, you know the routine. Take
his blaster and send him in." Oorfo straightened out his
stained tunic and slicked back his thinning hair with a pair of
chubby hands.
"Hedun unarmed, MastaOr."
Oorfo's eyes widened. Unarmed? What in G'omrm's name? "All
right. Send him in anyway. But give me a moment." Oorfo took
his own blaster out from his belt and hid it in a small crevice
beneath the table, making sure the safety catch was in the
"off" position.
Scowled at the captive Jedi who was still watching him
carefully, motionless and silent. Wagged a threatening finger
at him. "Remember what I told you about that collar and those
cuffs, boy. Shhhhhhhht." Oorfo drew a finger across his throat
for emphasis.
The Jedi continued to stare at him. Expressionless.
I have to get rid of him, thought Oorfo, grimacing.
Whatever this buyer is willing to pay, it will assuredly be
more than enough.
He stood and waited nervously for the shield doors to part.
They did, and Oorfo gaped at the tall, cloaked figure that
entered. His features were obscured by a large hood but the
sheer size and looming presence of him made Oorfo begin to
sweat.
"Um ... welcome." Oorfo stuck a pudgy hand in the direction of
the hooded figure. "How can I help you today?" He exhaled
wheezily and mopped his brow with his sleeve.
"I hear you trade in s'eramoah," said the figure, using the
Ruggarian word for "bedslave." "I'm looking to purchase some
wares from you."
Oorfo nodded, pulled out a worn bit of cloth from his tunic and
wiped his rapidly beading upper lip. "You are just in time, my
friend." He plastered on his best barterer's grin. "I have a
fine young specimen here, suitable for almost anything, from
the field to the bedroom. He is, um, multitalented and, er,
quite docile." Oorfo didn't mention that most creatures wearing
choke collars and razcuffs had an understandable tendency
toward docility. Sometimes it was better to let the buyer
figure those things out himself, he thought, wishing the deal
was over and done with and he could drink his way back into a
slightly more relaxed state.
The customer slowly pulled down his hood and Oorfo's mouth
dropped at the sight of him. Long brown hair, lightly threaded
with silver and dark gray framed deep blue eyes that pierced
right through the dim light of the slave ship, making Oorfo
tremble.
But the customer was no longer paying any attention to Oorfo.
Instead, he turned to the imprisoned Jedi. "What is your name,
boy?"
Much to Oorfo's surprise, the young Jedi looked up, met the
customer's gaze and answered directly. "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi,
Padawan learner to Master Qui-Gon Jinn of the Jedi Knights of
Coruscant." His voice was cultured, cold and as smooth as ice.
Oorfo thought he was going to have a heart attack. The creature
he'd been holding so ignobly was not a Knight, but a padawan. A
padawan that no doubt had a Master Jedi hot on his trail.
A Master Jedi who was going to slice Oorfo's head into three
bloody wedges before you could say "Jawa." Oh, by all the
infernal Hells of Teiwkass, Oorfo thought miserably, giving his
forehead another frantic wipe with the now sweat-soaked cloth.
If the cloaked man was surprised, he didn't show it. Turned to
Oorfo with an unreadable expression. "Is it common practice to
trade in Jedi?"
"Well . . . " Oorfo coughed, concealing his unease. "I'd say
that a Jedi is a most uncommon species of creature . . . and
uh, most valuable. But for you . . ."
"Twelve dectares," the customer replied. "I will give you no
more."
Even though the logical Oorfo would have gladly given the Jedi
away for one dectare, the business man within him whined in
agonized protest. "Why you must be . . . he sputtered
reflexively only to be interrupted by a sharp wave of the
buyer's hand.
"You will take the twelve dectares."
Oorfo blinked. Why, yes, that suddenly seemed like a most
reasonable amount. "I'll take the twelve dectares," Oorfo
murmured. He smiled dazedly at the customer who nodded
pleasantly in reply.
"You will lift the force field and remove the cuffs."
Of course Oorfo would. Nothing seemed more logical than that.
"I'm going to lift the force field and remove the cuffs." Oorfo
pulled a battered remote control from his pocket and hit a
series of buttons.
The field shivered, then disappeared as the cuffs fell from
Obi-Wan's wrists and clattered to the floor.
The customer waved his hand in front of Oorfo's eyes lingering
for a moment at his temple. "You will take your traffic off of
this world and resettle on the Outer Wastes, never to return."
Forceful tone, deep and irresistible.
"I think I'll be shipping off soon anyway, and head somewhere a
bit more remote," Oorfo confided in the customer. "Get out of
this business, raise a family, maybe start a farm. I've always
liked the idea of having a nice little farm."
"That's an excellent idea," the customer agreed. "Our business
is finished. Shalmoh melkia."
"Shalmoh keldaid." Oorfo bowed as he intoned the formal closure
statement.
The customer motioned to the young Jedi, who rose and bowed his
head respectfully. Took a moment to examine the younger man's
face, then ran his hands down the front of the young man's
chest and belly, pausing to tweak a nipple before moving down
toward his groin. It took a moment, but he fondled the
quiescent shaft to rampant life with skill that Oorfo had to
almost admire, even though he wanted them gone two cycles ago.
Let the Jedi's master slice this man's head into wedges,
not his, he thought.
The younger man's face slowly reddened as arousal became
impossible to resist. His eyes rose almost reluctantly to meet
his buyer's gaze and the red went deeper.
The customer finally turned and left, his purchase obediently
following at a respectful distance as Oorfo Den, slave trader,
settled down in his chair with a fresh b'erza. Sighed
contentedly and began to dream of a pretty wife and the long
fields of heweiit he'd reap come the harvest season of
Uraulane.
Obi-Wan sat quietly in the shielded hover car as the skin
beneath his choke-collar began to itch in the most infuriating
way. "I don't suppose you'd consider removing this infernal
device at any point, would you Master?"
"I'll meditate on the idea. Later."
Drily. "How kind."
The lights of Sgerta came into view and Obi-Wan suppressed a
sigh. He'd badly miscalculated his place in this mission,
disobeying the single key order his Master had given him. The
order to do nothing.
It almost struck him as funny, if he dared to dwell on it.
Perhaps one day in the future it would.
At the moment, however, the humor of the situation was still
evanescent.
Qui-Gon did not look amused. Qui-Gon was behaving in a most
unQui- Gon like way, all that fondling; perhaps it was
necessary for verisimilitude, but it was mortifying to have his
sex stand up and take notice in public. It was his own fault,
his flesh had responded before his brain could encompass
thoughts of Ixian naked eels or bantha poodoo.
Or anything worse, like beltran larvae, squirming wetly in the
hive.
At least thinking about them now kept him from becoming quite
so rampantly erect, even if his condition hadn't quite subsided
yet.
He cleared his throat. "Master?"
"Silence." Grim tone, and yet, Qui-Gon's hand reached over
again, he watched in a kind of glazed, pleasurable horror as
his master's fingers deftly teased him again. Oh, Force, he was
going to whimper, or at least his body wanted to whimper, he
was holding it back by biting his lip hard.
"What orders did I give you?" Almost a conversational tone.
There went his control. He whimpered, hips moving
involuntarily. "To stay with the ship."
"And what did you do?"
Oh, Force, those fingers were between his legs, gently rolling
first one testicle and then the other. His skin felt as if he'd
been doused in something flammable and set afire. "I, uh.."
What had he done? Oh, yes, he'd left the ship to investigate on
his own. "I left the ship." Faintly, mesmerized by the shift of
tendon and muscle in Qui-Gon's wrist.
"Exactly." Grim pleasure and he nearly yelped as those fingers
probed further back. "Ah, so they didn't touch you?"
He closed his eyes, felt the heat as the tide of color washed
over his entire body. "Well, no." Faintly. The fingers probed
more intimately and his hips came up off the seat without
volition. "M-m- master?"
"So, the slaver didn't take you, and neither did the dealer."
Sternly.
"N-n-no." He hadn't even considered that possibility until
Oorfo had gotten rid of his clothes.
"How fortunate for you." Acid tone.
Obi-Wan whimpered again; what little was left of his ability to
think and form coherent sentences was rapidly melting.
The hover car, blessedly, set down near their ship. Qui-Gon
gave him a long look, and so far gone was he that even that was
arousing. A quick movement, and Qui-Gon's robe settled around
his shoulders, shielding him from any curious eyes as they
exited the hover car and walked up the ramp into the ship.
The captain met them just inside the hatchway. "Ah, you've got
him." Relieved, and Obi-Wan found the mental capacity to wonder
if Qui-Gon had excoriated the captain for his absence, back on
Pell.
Qui-Gon was grimly silent, used one hand to guide Obi-Wan into
their cabin. "Lie down on the bed." Somewhat harshly.
He sat down instead, shivered a little as Qui-Gon turned toward
his bags. "Master, I'm sorry." Penitently.
He lay down immediately, glad of the robe. Qui-Gon turned back
to the bed, arched an eyebrow. "Take off the robe and roll
over."
Damn. He leaned up and shrugged free of the robe, unable to
prevent the frisson of desire that traced another shiver down
his spine. There was something in his master's eyes . . .
He soon discovered what it was, one sash was looped around each
of his wrists, around each of his ankles. The pillow was placed
under his belly to raise him just a bit higher and he began to
shiver again, less from fear than from anticipation. He was
opened and something cool and slick touched his body's private
entrance, he whimpered again, put his face into the bedclothes
as a blunt finger invaded him.
"This is far kinder than what would have happened to you if you
had been to the slaver's tastes." Grim again. "Oorfo Den, I
suspect, would not have hurt you. Much. Although you might have
lost your hands for struggling."
He bucked when that finger found the small gland inside,
pressing down and stroking. "Yes." Gasped it.
A warm mouth touched his cleft, a hot tongue flicked at him
there, and Qui-Gon's free hand smoothed the skin on the back of
his thighs. He whimpered, twisted in the bonds that held him.
"What does your oath require, Obi-Wan?"
He arched again, involuntarily. "Obedience." Another gasp.
Another finger joined the first, stretching him taut, almost to
the point of pain, but not quite. His body was less confused
than his mind, it knew quite well what it wanted, and that was
more of the same, he pushed back into Qui-Gon's fingers with
growing hunger and need, distantly mortified by the sounds he
was making in his throat.
The mouth moved to the small of his back, nipped at his skin
gently, sucked at it. It would leave a mark, he thought, and
the idea was so unexpectedly combustible that he moaned,
thinking of his master's mark on him.
A nip to the curve of one buttock and his hips were moving
steadily, seeking more, needing more. He cried out in
disappointment when the fingers withdrew, but something thicker
and hotter pressed against him then, a slow invasion that
burned until he had to take a deep breath.
Qui-Gon was inside him, he thought and groaned aloud.
"There would have been no lubricant," Qui-Gon told him
effortfully. "No preparation at all, just this. You would have
been hurt, Obi- Wan, torn. And doubtless beaten before hand. Do
you know how frightened I was for you?" Harshly.
He was beginning to figure it out, he thought, lunatic hilarity
blending with desire. "No. Yes." He wasn't sure, honestly, but
the resulting thrust was satisfying nonetheless.
"It would not have been this kind." Husky voice in his ear and
a big hand reached beneath him, stroked between his legs,
clasped his jutting shaft. "They would not have cared if you
felt pleasure or not."
He made a sound intended to convey comprehension and agreement,
but it sounded more like a desperate sob. Afraid Qui-Gon would
misinterpret, he pushed back against the larger body, pushed
into the fingers that gripped him.
The fabric of leggings and tunic somehow made it hotter, more
satisfying; he arched like a felinoid, rubbing himself against
Qui- Gon's chest and belly, felt the light prickle of hair
brush his buttocks as Qui-Gon sank all the way in.
He was making those sounds again, but the hell with being
mortified, with being contrite, he was going to let himself
drown in it. They moved in rhythm now, Qui-Gon setting the
pace, and there was warm breath on his nape, it made him
whimper again. "I'm sorry, Master." With effort, and it was a
lie, because if he'd known this might happen as a result, he
wouldn't have waited so long to leave the ship, risk
notwithstanding.
And oh, it was so good, too good, the slight burn affirmed
that, and Qui-Gon's breathing was harsh, growing harsher, and
those knowing fingers played him like a musical instrument,
sometimes rough, sometimes gentle, and something just perfectly
in between and he was going to simply explode or implode or die
or something ...
At least he would be happy. Pushing back against Qui-Gon's not
inconsiderable weight, he felt ecstasy come upon him, cried
out, no muffling it this time, felt his body tighten around the
thickness impaling him and spurted, hot and wet, onto the bed,
onto his own belly and chest, over the fingers that still
tormented him.
Qui-Gon's cry was almost triumphant, he could swear he felt the
heat and slickness fill him as his master's hips hammered
against his buttocks, faster and faster and then . . . then it
was over, and he was flat on the bed, comforted by a kiss on
the nape of his neck. "Never, never disobey me again." Huskily
again, and one big hand cupped his hip with tenderness.
"Never."
He put his cheek against the bed linen. "I won't." Blurrily.
"Good." Another kiss, this one tender and gentle against his
lips. "And don't get too comfortable yet, my padawan."
He looked up, confused. "Master?"
Was greeted with a wry, wicked smile. "Let's just say your new
owner plans on getting his twelve dectares worth."
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