Master Apprentice Archive Padawan Quick search:

Rating: NC-17

Archive: MA

Series: none

Categories: Q/O, AR, first-time, BDSM, PWP, Chan. Virgin!Obi.

Feedback: A regular slut for it.

Summary: Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan belong to a lush Jedi Order in which the padawans spend their training repaying their Masters for the privilege of being chosen. Coming-of-age occurs at eighteen. Call it a cultural exploration.

Spoilers/Warnings: BDSM cause, you know, I just can't help myself. D/s, more specifically. References to chan (remembered).

Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.

Notes: Everyone else has done the padawan-as-bedslave plot; now I present my version. Bunnied, and therefore beta'ed, by Dragonkal, whose ongoing email conversations have provided rather... inspirational images.

/.... / Denotes thoughts and bond speak.

He'd studied for this day, prepared for it for years. It was not the ritualized sex that made him so nervous--though he felt perhaps it should have--nor the fact that Qui-Gon had a forbidding reputation as an extraordinarily demanding bedmate. Obi-Wan Kenobi, third padawan to Qui-Gon Jinn, truly hoped to be the last boy the Master took on. Today was his birthday; he was eighteen. After tonight, Obi-Wan's service would take on a more personal mien. A much more personal mien.

He ticked items off on his fingers as he ran through a mental checklist of preparatory items, muttering quietly to himself: "Robe, bath, tea and wine..." The fifth item on his list would not quite leave his lips. It was only a formality; a set hadn't been used in centuries, he knew, but still the idea made him decidedly nervous. It was a pair of red leather cuffs. Their meaning was known throughout the Order, repeated by rote in half-nervous padawan whispers: "In case of noncompliance during a coming-of-age ritual, the cuffs are to be used to restrain the padawan until completion." The words were so simple and yet so utterly frightening that Obi-Wan mentally reviewed the tea setting to ground himself.

/A set hasn't been used in centuries,/ he repeated silently, as he was sure every eighteen-year-old padawan did on their ritual day.

He had been a good padawan thus far; he knew it and his Master did, too. Obi-Wan had complied with every request, every whim in addition to the rules and protocols of padawanship that he'd learned in the creche. He knew exactly how to oil his Master's boots to perfection, knew exactly how Qui-Gon enjoyed his oral service best, and knew exactly when to change from the norm and provide variety. He had mastered the way Qui-Gon enjoyed his meals and the exact length of time to steep one cup or one pot of tea was something he knew in his sleep. Obi-Wan had perfected his services, maintained his chastity and reported every involuntary orgasm faithfully. When his dreams had become unruly and he'd spent himself into his sheets twice in one month, he sought the aid of his Master, hoping that he could be taught to control his unconscious desires. That night, Qui-Gon had guided him to sleep, monitoring the bond and teaching Obi-Wan to dream lucidly, redirecting his thoughts. Obi-Wan's wet dream problem had ended there; Qui-Gon's pride in his padawan had been palpable and sweet.

Every padawan was trained from birth to provide service to their Masters as well as to the galaxy. It gave them better appreciation of the benefits they would receive when they became Masters themselves, and good Masters earned the right of taking on many padawans during their spans in the Order. But Obi-Wan hoped... oh, he only hoped. He dared not allow himself to complete the thought in case it might not come true. Suddenly he realized that all of his means and methods of pleasing his Master amounted to nothing tonight. If Qui-Gon wanted him, then all of Obi-Wan's special touches were icing. If he didn't...

/Then there's nothing I can do,/ Obi-Wan thought morosely. /It will only be the ritual, and then... nothing./

He double-checked the wine service anyway. Tea, wine--Obi-Wan never knew which his Master might be in the mood for, so he'd learned years ago to serve both. The padawan had spent many a night with a tray on each hand, palms splayed beneath them and arms shaking while his Master feigned indecision.

But that was a padawan's life, and Obi-Wan certainly wasn't complaining. In exchange for the gift and honor of padawanship, training and effort spent raising an adolescent to adulthood, the padawan repaid his debt with submission. It had been like this for millennia. There were no unsanctioned orgasms, no relationships outside the Master/padawan dynamic other than strictly platonic and very well chaperoned ones, and every detail of the Master's wishes had to be followed to the letter. The Order kept strict protocols on every kind of schooling from calculus to oral sex. Disobedience in any form resulted in the worst possible punishment of all: separation from the Master. Depending on the offense, a padawan might be placed in a short detention or a long one; extreme offenses required separation and corporal punishment, doled out by a nameless Master who worked in the detention center. A padawan's life was happily micromanaged down to the smallest detail as they learned to deal with problems on an interplanetary scope: so went the years of a savior-in-training.

This time, Obi-Wan made himself plow through the entire list: "Robe, bath, tea and wine, cuffs, fresh linens, lubricant..." He pulled in a breath as he heard the chime go off in the common room: Qui-Gon would be here directly.

Quickly, Obi-Wan arranged himself, kneeling before the doorway of the common area in the traditional greeting stance. His robe was short; it descended to mid-thigh, sliding upward as he parted his legs, straightening his back. It was very similar to the standard tunic, but with mid-length sleeves to allow efficient service. A padawan's life was a grueling one; most days, he was responsible for many aspects of his Master's readiness as well as his own. Long, flopping sleeves were not conducive to graceful household work.

Obi-Wan ran through the serenity mantra as he waited. Qui-Gon should have been here by now; the bell had sounded, which meant he was in the outer hall. But where was he? Why wasn't he coming through the door?

Biting his lip, Obi-Wan struggled not to fidget. Had his Master been stopped by a friend? Was something wrong, perhaps? He stared at the door, waiting. More correctly, he was agonizing: he'd been over and over everything, but was it good enough? Was it perfect? Would it be enough to prove that Obi-Wan desired and deserved to be Qui-Gon's last padawan? Where was Qui-Gon?

After a small eternity, Qui-Gon came through the door. Heart racing, Obi-Wan kept his eyes lowered and his back straight ("A padawan's posture must reflect pride and humility at once," he recited in his head, trying to discreetly run his tongue around his suddenly dry mouth), waiting for Qui-Gon to speak.

The Master paced around his padawan, inspecting him a moment. "Very nice, my own," he said at last. "Begin the evening."

Obi-Wan rose and bowed deeply, indicating the dining table, already laden with covered dishes. He'd worked very hard on that meal: everything was Qui-Gon's favorite. He sought the complimentary wave of approval that he normally received through the bond, but there was nothing. Of course; before the ritual, the Master was to remain shielded.

He served his Master efficiently, arranging spoonfuls and portions on Qui-Gon's plate and pouring the tea when Qui-Gon held up a hand and refused the wine silently.

/Of course,/ Obi-Wan supposed, /wine would not be a good idea tonight./ He silently cursed his lack of perception.

The padawan puttered about almost aimlessly, fidgeting with the dinner service until his Master bade him sit and eat. Waiting dutifully until Qui-Gon had begun, Obi-Wan then served himself small portions and began to tuck his food away out of habit rather than hunger.

"You are very nervous," Qui-Gon observed, sipping his tea.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan replied quietly, fixing his gaze on Qui-Gon's long fingers. Obi-Wan had once thought that the cups were far too small to safely sit in those huge hands, but the hands in question were nothing if not graceful and full of finesse.

"This ritual has been performed in a million ways for a thousand years. You have nothing to fear from me, my own."

/Nothing to fear but your next padawan,/ Obi-Wan thought, heart clenching, but only nodded. He was startled when a large, warm hand enveloped his on the tabletop. Stunned out of propriety, Obi-Wan met his Master's gaze questioningly before he caught himself.

"You must trust me, Padawan," Qui-Gon said quietly, overlooking the direct but brief eye contact. "I would never hurt you."

Obi-Wan nodded again, relishing the uncharacteristic affectionate touch before it withdrew, leaving his hand colder than before, hungry for that skin over his again. He longed to explain that it was not physical hurt that frightened him, but he had no place laying claim to his Master in such a way. He could only hope that Qui-Gon's feelings even remotely matched his own.

/Only a fraction of this would keep him from seeking another padawan,/ Obi-Wan realized, closing his eyes and tipping his head down as a wave of longing gripped him. The urge to declare his love was almost overwhelming but the padawan fought it back before politely offering more tea.

"Enough," Qui-Gon said coolly. "I am not hungry and neither are you. Bathe me." He rose without another word, setting his napkin on his plate and striding quickly toward the 'fresher. Obi-Wan followed, glancing back at the mostly-untouched dinner and biting his lip. Something was wrong.

Obi-Wan undressed his Master efficiently, carefully folding his clothing onto a chair and setting his boots aside. Candles lit the 'fresher with a warm glow and the air was fragrant with sandalwood. The second part of the ritual had begun--the padawan had filled, heated, and scented the bath to perfection just before Qui-Gon was due home--and now Obi-Wan realized that what should be a momentous and thrilling occasion only frightened him. He could read nothing of Qui-Gon's emotions, though he knew Qui-Gon was cognizant of everything that Obi-Wan did not actively shield. The padawan hid nothing, and he knew it.

Sighing, Qui-Gon stepped into the ornate, marbled bath tub and sank into the water up to his chest, beckoning to his padawan. Obi-Wan stripped his tunic off quickly, flushing as his aching erection came into view. It always embarrassed him, though part of a padawan's learnings included entire classes on the practicality and necessity of nudity and flesh responses. To Obi-Wan, it felt like a loss of control.

Qui-Gon had seen it nearly every day of their lives together, however; he had, in fact, dealt not only with another male padawan and his constant adolescent erections, but a female's less consistent swollen moisture as well. Obi-Wan knew that Qui-Gon paid it no heed. The Master opened his arms and Obi-Wan went to him, straddling his lap in the water and gritting his teeth, fighting the urge to slide his hardness forward against his Master's. That Qui-Gon was erect was perhaps a good sign, though Obi-Wan knew that often it made little difference.

"This is going to be unusual," Qui-Gon said quietly, his voice still cool. He felt distant and aloof to the young Jedi--far more than his usual reserve--and that bothered the padawan more than any words. The warmth that had prompted the Master to reach across the dinner table and take his padawan's hand had disappeared, leaving a hardness behind that confused Obi-Wan.

"Yes, Master," was all the padawan could think to reply. He reached for the soap and a cloth and began to work up a lather.

As he washed his Master's skin, he recalled so many nights that had begun right here. Sometimes Qui-Gon called ahead, notifying his padawan to simply feed himself and concentrate on the bath instead. On one such night, Qui-Gon had stood after being washed, rinsed himself--unusual behavior, to be sure--and sat on the edge of the tub, indicating a wish to be serviced.

Obi-Wan had complied, kicking back the sting of jealousy and the desire to speculate who had put his master in such a state. But as always, he had relished the taste of his Master's skin and the scent of steam and sandalwood that clung to it. Obi-Wan had licked and sucked, hands gripping the edge of the bathtub lest his knees slide on the wet marble. Qui-Gon had wrapped the padawan braid around his hand and pushed down on the back of Obi-Wan's head, groaning as he came. For the barest of seconds, the young man had thought he'd heard his own name on his Master's lips.

It had been a profound experience for the young Jedi. He had remained where he was a moment, desperately scrabbling for his center and calling on an extraordinarily gratuitous amount of Force energy to ease his aching erection. He had glanced up to see his Master staring at him speculatively, mouth partially open as if he would speak. Finally Qui-Gon had said tersely, "Go to bed." He had thrown his robe on (completely ignoring the second phase of the bath), brushed his own hair and retired to his room, closing the door behind him.

Obi-Wan had gone to bed as ordered, but did not sleep. In the pre-dawn hours, he'd heard his Master's soft groan issuing from the larger room and had bitten back a pained noise and turned over. Qui-Gon had never done these things for himself. No master did: brushing his hair, dressing himself, taking his own pleasure rather than using his padawan's hand or mouth? It was unheard of. Obi-Wan had felt sure that he had done something terribly wrong, though what it might have been, he had no idea. Days, weeks, then months passed and Obi-Wan never learned the nature or the reason for Qui-Gon's apparent dissatisfaction.

"You have gone elsewhere," Qui-Gon chided, pulling Obi-Wan back to the present and standing to be rinsed. "Tell me what is so important that it takes you away from me."

Draining the water from the tub and rinsing his Master's body, Obi-Wan held in a sigh. "I--was only remembering other nights here, Master. In the bath." He bent to fill the tub again, adding the oils that Qui-Gon loved best. By requirement, he offered softly, "Does my Master wish to be served?"

"No, my own," Qui-Gon replied, settling back into the water and tugging Obi-Wan over him. "Tonight is for you."

The padawan suppressed a shiver. The words were tender, but the tone so measured that he wondered exactly where his Master's mood lay.

"Yes, Master," he replied dutifully, eyes lowered. He remained where he was, straddling Qui-Gon's legs, his own hands on his parted thighs, awaiting instructions.

Qui-Gon was silent for a time, then trailed a hand up the inside of Obi-Wan's thigh under the rising water. "Do you feel your submission? Is it a labor of demand or desire?"

Staring at the hand playing idly over his skin, Obi-Wan said shakily, "It is a labor of desire." /Of love, of love!/ his heart shouted, but Obi-Wan dared offer no more. Qui-Gon's coolness was too unnerving, and the padawan was afraid now to sink himself into a man who might not love him back, might not want him. Love was not a requirement to the sexual aspects of a padawan's submission.

"I do feel my submission," he added, unable to help himself, his need to please overwhelming his fear of his Master's coldness.

"Kneel up," Qui-Gon instructed, reaching for one of the oil bottles. He coated his fingers with the thick, fragrant liquid and slid his hand upward along Obi-Wan's wet thigh, eliciting a helpless whimper.

"Now you will begin to learn to take me," Qui-Gon said. "Your body must be stretched and prepared before I can enter you." Pausing at the tight entrance, Qui-Gon gripped the padawan braid and pulled Obi-Wan forward until he was forced to brace himself on the Master's shoulders.

"Look into my eyes," the Master commanded. When Obi-Wan did, Qui-Gon recited the beginning of the ritual: "You have sworn to me that you are virginal and true. Tell me now that this remains so, or forswear your padawanship."

"It is so," Obi-Wan whispered, staring into those deep blue eyes that he was so seldom able to look at. Qui-Gon said nothing more, pushing his hand upward and sliding a slick finger inside his padawan's body.

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth against the burn and aching stretch. He had anticipated this, had known it would hurt, but as with all life-changing events, could never have prepared himself for it. Qui-Gon's 'saber calloused finger stroked inside him deeply for a moment, twisting and withdrawing and reentering before it was joined by a second finger. Obi-Wan gasped and gripped his Master's shoulders uncontrollably. He was unaware that the water, now halfway up his thighs, had been shut off by the Master's discreet flick of Force use. He was unaware of the tingle of the oil inside him. He was only aware of that burning, stretching pressure that invaded him. A faint sense of violation struck him before he reprimanded himself sharply that this was his Master.

/So that is what the cuffs are for,/ he realized a little hysterically, tearing his gaze away from his Master's eyes and looking down into the water at the thick, swollen cock below him.

Impossibly, Qui-Gon added a third finger, twisting his hand until Obi-Wan was gasping and squeezing his Master's shoulders painfully. The young Jedi was on the cusp of a desperate plea for time, rest, anything when something flared to life inside him, exploding in a shower of hot, sparking pleasure. He jumped and cried out, suddenly filled with the desire to push himself down onto the hand that impaled him.

That place caught fire again and again until Obi-Wan was sobbing with need. He stole a glance back up at Qui-Gon, who was watching him with that same expression he'd worn on that awful night just recalled: distant and stern.

Abruptly Qui-Gon removed his hand, washing it quickly and sluicing water over himself to spread the bath oils onto his skin.

"Dry me ," he ordered, rising. Shaking, Obi-Wan complied, carefully patting the water away from the tall, lean body he adored. After he'd finished Qui-Gon's preparation, he dried himself quickly and followed his Master into the large bedroom.

"On the bed, on your back," Qui-Gon said. As Obi-Wan sank down onto the mattress, Qui-Gon spoke more of the ritual: "You have sworn to me that all of your pleasure has been mine. Tell me now that this remains so, or forswear your padawanship."

"It is so," Obi-Wan sighed, for the first time in his life wishing that it were not. His erection throbbed and his body burned from Qui-Gon's touch, aching in a way that was neither pleasant nor particularly painful, only empty... so empty.

Qui-Gon seemed to hover between the coldness and warmth before allowing a near-silent whisper to leave his lips. He moved onto the bed, staring down at his padawan with naked hunger. Obi-Wan's breath stuck in his throat before he remembered that he was staring into his Master's eyes again and looked away.

"Ah, Padawan, you have no idea," Qui-Gon murmured inexplicably. "I have never regretted that law until you. Look at me, my own. Let me see your eyes."

Obi-Wan did, and what he saw in Qui-Gon's gaze quite stole what last air he had. The Master's desire was plain, yes, as well as his ownership, but there was so much warmth there that it shocked Obi-Wan out of his rational thinking.

"Master, please, I need you," he blurted. "I have needed you since I was young. I have wanted this day and dreaded it forever, only a little less than I want and dread my knighting. Please, I--"

Suddenly Obi-Wan caught himself once more, flushing. Oh, what had he done? Those were completely improper things to say to a Master, completely improper, and Qui-Gon's silence spoke volumes.

The Master called a tube of thick lubricant to his hand from its place by a stack of cloths near the bed. He spread it over his fingers again, then reached down between his padawan's legs, watching Obi-Wan with that quiet sternness.

/No,/ Obi-Wan thought frantically. /Not like this... not out of duty. Not for the ritual alone./ He had dreamed of this day but had hoped it would be beautiful and passionate, more than a pleasurable coupling borne of tradition. But when those fingers pierced him again and found that place inside him, he was reduced to nothing more than need and physical ache. Twisting and whimpering, he closed his eyes tightly and tried not to think of his Master's cool blue gaze on him, dispassionately assessing his body and his state of arousal, calculating when would be the best time to take advantage of the padawan's need for penetration.

Suddenly Qui-Gon's body was no longer over his, though that huge hand continued to work inside him. Obi-Wan let out a shocked yelp as warm, soft, wet suction descended over his erection. He was at once melting into the bed and scrambling upward, every cell in his being trained on the lapping tongue and sliding lips. A hot, electric ache shot through him, coalescing in the pit of his stomach, in his balls and cock, in whatever part of him Qui-Gon touched. Gasping in a short breath as that place inside him imploded, he shrieked and came, liquid pleasure rocketing through his body as Qui-Gon swallowed.

Panting too hard, Obi-Wan rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear away the swimming black spots before realizing he had completely lost control again. This was worse than a stray erection or a wet dream. He had come inside his master's mouth, something he had never heard of any padawan doing.

"Forgive me, Master," he stammered, struggling to curl upward onto his elbows. "I lost myself--"

"Stay where you are, Padawan," Qui-Gon said, his voice still as cool as his eyes. To Obi-Wan's horror, he rose from the bed and went to the dresser where the red cuffs lay in their box.

Terrified, Obi-Wan began babbling, "Master, I am willing. I swear, there is no need--I do not require restraint--"

"Shhh, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon murmured, returning to the bed with the dreaded cuffs. "You do not understand."

When Obi-Wan looked at him, he could see something he'd never seen in his Master's eyes before: conflict. Wondering, the padawan stared.

"I have been your Master for five years," Qui-Gon intoned, speaking once more the ritual lines. "In those years you have learned freedom in service and pride in humility. In those years I have learned slavery in ownership and abandon in responsibility. You are mine to train: mine to make into a warrior, a scholar and a man." Qui-Gon continued to hold his padawan's gaze as he added the seldom-spoken last line: "Mine to love, if you will allow it."

Obi-Wan's heart tightened painfully, torn in too many directions. A sob wrenched itself unbidden from his throat as he struggled to get the last of the ritual out. "I am yours to take, yours to make--and--love--Master, I promise, you do not need the cuffs, please--"

Tenderness reached the Master's eyes then, tenderness and sorrow as the conflict faded. "Oh, my own, tell me now, honestly, if you truly believe that I would hurt you." He held up the cuffs. "I can turn threat into promise." He shook his head when the fear remained fixed in Obi-Wan's eyes and leaned over the young body beneath him, staring into the gray-green depths.

"Have you not always trusted me?" Qui-Gon whispered.

"With everything I have in me," Obi-Wan said immediately, calming.

The Master smiled faintly. "Then trust me now with more than you thought you had." He waited a moment until Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly, then applied the cuffs, buckling them securely around slender wrists.

Obi-Wan stared at the bright, blood-red restraints and the silver chain that bound them together. If his Master did not intend to force him into compliance with them, then what...?

Pulling in a deep breath, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and found his center, repeating his Master's words like a mantra: "Mine to love, if you will allow it. Mine to love...." As he calmed himself, Qui-Gon gently raised his padawan's arms up, securing him to the bedpost.

And then, Qui-Gon did something Obi-Wan had only dreamed of: he kissed his padawan.

It began as a light brush: a warm, dry, sure mouth gliding over trembling, parted lips. Obi-Wan sighed, a whimper slipping out on the warm air. Qui-Gon pressed more firmly, nipping with his own lips at Obi-Wan's. When the Master's tongue slid over Obi-Wan's bottom lip and then pressed inward, the padawan let out a groan and admitted him. Sweetly, languidly, Qui-Gon played until Obi-Wan returned the kiss, nervously at first and then warmly, following his Master's movements. Then the kiss disappeared, leaving Obi-Wan straining to recapture it.

"So eager," Qui-Gon said hoarsely, half to himself, brushing his thumb over Obi-Wan's mouth. "And this is so simple... just a kiss..." He descended again, kissing, biting softly, his tongue tasting and dancing. Obi-Wan moaned softly, helplessly, wanting more, so much more, but not knowing of what. So lost in the kiss was he that he tried to bring his arms down to wrap them around Qui-Gon's neck. Frustrated by the bindings, he sighed and went still again. There was nothing to do but accept the kiss as the beautiful gift that it was.

"So much to learn," his Master murmured, breaking the kiss and brushing his cheek against Obi-Wan's, his lips brushing a soft, pink ear. "My own canvas on which to paint whatever I desire."

Obi-Wan shivered. "Yes, Master," he moaned softly. "Anything you wish. Yours to take, yours to make... and yours to love."

Raising his head suddenly, Qui-Gon stared down, his eyes unreadable. "Never say that if it isn't true," he warned. "Not even for the ritual."

Obi-Wan gazed back steadily, saying nothing.

Qui-Gon descended again, kissing Obi-Wan now with a hunger that the young Jedi was thrilled to return. When Qui-Gon's mouth left his to trace a light path down his throat and to his chest, Obi-Wan went still, gripping the chains. His Master's beard brushed over his skin, tickling; long hair trailed over him, making him want to twist and squirm. But that warm, skilled mouth enthralled Obi-Wan, rendering him useless. Qui-Gon kissed his way to a nipple, sucking and licking. Obi-Wan gasped and then moaned and arched upward at a careful bite. He was disappointed when the kisses trailed away, then desperately pleased when they found the other nipple.

Qui-Gon settled over him firmly and Obi-Wan hitched in a breath: his erection was pinned between his own body and his Master's, and the pressure was too much to resist. Unbidden, his hips began to move, creating a shockingly sweet friction. Qui-Gon's lips and teeth continued to play over a hard nipple, and now the pleasure came in intense shock waves, rocketing through Obi-Wan with every thrust of hips and scrape of teeth. Young, strong legs wrapped themselves around Qui-Gon's waist, and though some dim, distant part of Obi-Wan was astonished at his own lack of restraint, he was lost to that mouth and the warm, firm skin against his cock.

Abruptly, the world imploded as Obi-Wan came again, crying out and thrusting against his master's body, dimly registering a pleased groan that was not his.

Qui-Gon levered himself up, smiling and calling a hand towel to him from the stack beside the bed before wiping his stomach and then his padawan's. "The insatiability of youth is so... encouraging," he said quietly, tossing the towel down and reaching again for the lubricant. "This is why the Order requires that a padawan wait until this night. It is a Master's right to teach this, and no one else's." His voice took on a confident note, almost an arrogant one as he added, "I can please you in ways you've never dreamed of."

Unable to think of anything to say, Obi-Wan only swallowed and nodded, his cock already firming again at the idea of his own Master doing unknown things to him simply for pleasure, for a padawan's pleasure. Qui-Gon noted the growing hardness and petted it with his fingertips, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh, yes, my own. There is so much I can teach you. So much you will learn, so quickly. It will be a wonder that we ever leave this room." The Master picked up the lubricant again and slicked his fingers once more, parting his padawan's legs widely, pushing his knees up and apart before pressing against Obi-Wan's entrance. This time, Obi-Wan shifted his hips, already eager for that touch to be inside him again, already moaning for more as the master stopped just on the edge of penetration.

"I am going to open you up now, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon explained softly, pushing two fingertips inside and stopping, turning and moving them slightly. "I'm preparing you for me." Only when he glanced upward at Obi-Wan's bound hands did it occur to the padawan that his nails were digging into his palms. Obi-Wan forced himself to relax: he'd been gripping the chain tightly, pulling on it, tense with anticipation.

"You might find you are quite grateful for those," Qui-Gon added, looking his padawan in the eye before pressing those two fingers home.

Obi-Wan arched and cried out softly, shuddering as that gorgeous, white-hot place was stroked again. Indeed, he was grateful for the cuffs then as his body tensed and strained for more sensation. Qui-Gon established a rhythm with his hand, caressing softly, spreading his fingers, twisting his hand, again and again, then adding a third finger and starting over. Obi-Wan would later reflect that he did not know what he might have done with his own hands, had they been free: perhaps dug them into the linens, perhaps gripped Qui-Gon's arm. Perhaps he might have even reached for his own cock, unknowing and uncaring if it was forbidden in moments like these. As it was he found he could not stop pumping his hips, alternately reaching for a touch that wasn't there and grinding downward onto those fingers buried inside him. More, he wanted more, and yet knew somehow that it would never be enough.

Slowly, carefully, Qui-Gon withdrew his hand while Obi-Wan whimpered and shifted restlessly.

"How beautiful you are," Qui-Gon sighed. "Your skin is light against the red cuffs. Your face is flushed. You are taut all over. How I have longed to see you just this way."

Obi-Wan tried to envision himself as his Master described but found that he could not focus enough. His thoughts snagged on the last statement and hung there. Before he could gather himself enough to respond, Qui-Gon was moving closer, cradling his padawan's slim hips and pressing the head of his cock against Obi-Wan's opening.

"Gently," Qui-Gon admonished as Obi-Wan struggled to push himself onto his Master. The padawan came to understand the reason for caution as Qui-Gon slowly entered him, breaching him in a way that, once again, he could never have properly anticipated. The burn was there, yes, and it was huge now, unquestionable and unavoidable. He felt spread too widely, too vulnerable for words, and it hurt. Obi-Wan moaned, shivering, torn between the pain and the pleasure. But there was more, a fullness that was so deeply, terrifyingly right that Obi-Wan caught his breath. He stared up at his Master, whose expression was tense and restrained.

"Force," Qui-Gon sighed raggedly, moving slowly, ever so slowly into Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan broke under his Master's excessive carefulness. "Please, Master. Please." He wriggled his hips urgently, eager for a stroke against that spot again.

"Be still," Qui-Gon said sharply on a rough exhale, "I don't want to hurt you."

Sinking into the mattress, Obi-Wan realized through his fogged state that he had never had anything to fear, truly. He was bound to the headboard and held firmly by the hips while his Master slowly impaled him, and Qui-Gon was taking astonishing care. Suddenly he realized how safe he was, how utterly protected. Qui-Gon sheltered his padawan in this vulnerable state, protecting him from hurt even if it meant frustrating them both. The realization drove itself home hard, touching Obi-Wan deeply.

"I love you, Master," he whispered.

Qui-Gon's eyes flew open and he stared down at his padawan. Obi-Wan could glean nothing from his expression, though he wasn't sure that it mattered. He had loved Qui-Gon silently for so long now that it would make little difference for him to continue doing so. Content in his revelation, Obi-Wan smiled faintly, closing his eyes and focusing at last: on the feel of the cuffs on his wrists, on the chain in his hands, on the slow, thick glide of his master still moving forward, sinking into him. His confession echoed inside his head. It was liberating.

Qui-Gon held still as he sank home at last, eyes tightly closed once more. "Force," he breathed again. "Move now, Obi-Wan. Slowly."

Centered on the amazing fullness, Obi-Wan shifted his hips down into the bed, then up, letting out a low moan as Qui-Gon began to move with him, still slowly. Tucking his legs forward, Qui-Gon lifted his padawan's hips up and pressed inside again, causing that place to catch fire all over again.

"Ohhh Master," Obi-Wan groaned. He gripped the chains more tightly, relishing the smooth coolness of the links in his hands and the way the cuffs felt hot against the skin of his wrists. He wanted to say how good it was, how much better than he could ever have imagined; he wanted to tell his Master how important this was to him. Fine words like those had completely fled him, however. Obi-Wan could only moan and sigh and hope that his Master would somehow understand that this met every desire he could have had for his coming-of-age.

Soon enough, though, thought was gone as well as Qui-Gon began to move more quickly, thrusting deeply inside his padawan's body. Obi-Wan could feel his Master tensing, holding back, and he longed to grab Qui-Gon's hips and pull him in hard, show him that he was no longer afraid. Instead, he wrapped his legs around the master's waist again, linking his ankles behind the small of Qui-Gon's back, pulling. The shift in movement struck those sparks inside his body once and he arched, crying out incoherently.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon groaned. His movements were steady but fast now and Obi-Wan completely lost himself when Qui-Gon reached down and grasped his cock, stroking quickly. That same heat shot through his young body as before, but now it was bigger than before, all-encompassing as his Master stroked deeply inside him and loved him--yes, Obi-Wan was sure of it now. Qui-Gon loved him.

"Ohh--" Obi-Wan cried, and then the build was more than he could withstand. He arched his back, shoving onto Qui-Gon as hard as he could manage as he came, unbelievable pleasure coursing through him, over him, and then the Master was following after him, shouting. Yes, Qui-Gon Jinn was shouting, as lost as his padawan was, and Obi-Wan could do nothing less than laugh for the sheer joy of it.

Breathless, staring and bracing himself on his hands, Qui-Gon laughed too. "What--?" he asked, but Obi-Wan suspected he knew.

"So good," was all Obi-Wan could get out, and once again he hoped that his Master could see all of the meaning that his padawan had shoved into those two words.

Calming slowly, Qui-Gon withdrew, hissing, and then released Obi-Wan from the cuffs before taking another towel and cleaning his padawan's stomach again and cursorily wiping himself off. He tossed the towel away and hesitated, gazing down at the boy who had only just stepped into manhood.

Still smiling, Obi-Wan reached up for the cuffs and pulled them free of the post, then studied them, running a fingertip over the leather. He grew serious when Qui-Gon did not speak or move, simply remained where he was, one leg cocked up and leaning back on his hands.

"Please say something, Master," he whispered.

Qui-Gon remained silent a moment longer, then asked, "Did I frighten you?"

Obi-Wan's gaze remained fixed on the cuff in his hand. He touched the buckle, tracing it. "Not once I knew." His eyes flicked up to his Master's. "It isn't my place to ask, Master, forgive me, but... why?" He could find no proper phrasing, so he simply held up the cuffs.

Pulling in a breath, Qui-Gon placed a hand over Obi-Wan's. "I could have bound you down with any number of things. But those... you were afraid of those. I needed to know that you trusted me this much. It... was purely for myself, purely selfish. The red cuffs are not meant to be used that way, but it is something I need. Do you understand?"

Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly. "Yes, Master." He rolled to one side and curled up, facing Qui-Gon, cradling the cuffs somewhat. Qui-Gon trusted him enough to breach the protocol in a ritual so profound that every one was annotated and archived. They shared a secret in a world of secrets, a world where padawans kept nothing to themselves and divulged everything to their superiors. It meant more to Obi-Wan than he could voice.

At a loss, he simply whispered, "I meant what I said."

Finally, Qui-Gon stretched out beside his padawan, pillowing his head on a folded arm and brushing his fingertips over Obi-Wan's forehead. "I know, Obi-Wan. I have known for a long time. But a Master is forbidden from speaking of these things until after the coming-of-age."

Without another word, he opened up his shields. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and sighed, drinking in the desire and need that--yes, it was true, then--had resided within his Master for so long now. After a moment, Obi-Wan opened his eyes to find his Master gazing down at him.

"You are a grown man now, and the Order will open up to you in ways you cannot imagine. At last I can say the thing that I have waited so long to say."

Obi-Wan stared now, unabashedly, into Qui-Gon's eyes. He might be reprimanded for it later, even punished, but now he needed to see the look that came with the words:

"I love you, too, my padawan."

End.