Master Apprentice Archive Padawan Braid Quick search:

Archive: master_apprentice, www.heartofslash.net

Category: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan, kink

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Hair kink. Not plot at all. Nonregulation use of a Padawan braid.

Summary: There has to be a reason for that goofy coif.

Disclaimer: Please, I beg of you, never let George Lucas know I did this. I live in terror of a horde of ill-behaved storm troopers showing up on my doorstep demanding that honour be satisfied.

Feedback: That's what keeps the Master purring.

A test. A test of perseverance and patience. Physical staying power. A test for both Master and Padawan.

There is a slight hiss as air flows in and out, carefully controlled. It is difficult, to breathe with a throat so constricted, a tongue so compressed by hard, hot flesh it aches, mouth so stuffed with a cock that will not wither.

Blood can go in; it cannot flow out.

The nose presses against tight, tense belly. The lips grip near the base of the heavy shaft, just above the restraining ring. The cheeks hollow, drawing in, caressing, creating exquisite suction coupled with excruciating pressure.

The air warms as it rushes out, cools as it is sucked back in, just barely penetrating the layer of dark hair on the Master's pale skin.

The hair under the Master's fingers is silken, even thought the freshly trimmed strands stand up and prickle his fingertips softly. A golden-brown tail curls against the nape of his Padawan's naked neck, plastered to the skin by a layer of sweat. The sweat makes the finely carved muscles of the naked back glimmer between the Master's widespread legs.

Sweat because this is hard work.

Strong, lean thighs spread wide, and fine, long fingers dig into the straining muscles, betraying the depth of his Padawan's effort to remain still throughout the ordeal. Such heart-breaking dedication causes pride to swell painfully in the Master's chest.

His Padawan is extraordinary.

How long can this be maintained? How long can he remain in that talented, obedient mouth without release?

It would be perfect, but for one detail: he cannot hear his Padawan's voice. He cannot hear that beloved voice call him Master, promise to obey, thank him for whatever he chooses to grant, beg him for whatever else his Padawan needs.

His fingers glide over the hot scalp and trace the curves of ears and across the furrowed brow, lingering on that flaw, that mole that reminds him this is real, not marring the beauty of his Padawan in any way, but serving as proof that he is a man, a mere man, and not a wicked fantasy come to life.

"Do you tire?"

The moan is definitely negative. The tongue shifts under his cock and the lips press harder.

"You would continue?"

Somehow, this moan answers in the affirmative. And the throat begins to undulate against the head of his cock.

He should punish his Padawan for lying. It's obvious these actions are intended to end the encounter by forcing the Master to explode. Now.

But then, perhaps his Padawan is indicating that he need not rest, that he will see this through to the end. He may not even be consciously hastening the process; it is not as if he has a choice, tethered to his master as he is by the symbol of his apprenticeship. And he plainly loves to suck. It would not be fitting a Jedi Master to deny his Padawan such a simple pleasure.

The end will not come unless he loosens his restraints. The braided strands tease his fingers as he fumbles with them. The knot is tight, must be tight to withstand the pressure of Qui-Gon's mounting desire. The hair seems to want to retain the shape of the knot, the contour of his cock. He works it free soon enough, loosens the golden-red hair that has kept his passion prisoner almost too long. He has even less trouble letting go of his self-discipline.

As lips slip frantically up and down his cock, the newly freed head bobbing and twisting the mouth around him, tongue dancing, he becomes one with the moment and one with the Force. He feels the energy flow through him and out of him, into his Padawan's eager mouth.

A glance at the chronometer informs him that even he, the Master, has lost track of time. There is barely enough time to finish properly.

"Stand," he orders.

Legs shake from the effort. The poor man has been kneeling so long the weight of his engorged cock is almost too much for him to bear. The painfully stiff shaft wavers at eye-level, moisture at the tip. Irrepressible.

"Let go of your feelings," he commands. Then adds, "You may use your hand."

Flashing, so fast it is barely visible, knuckles white with tension in stark contrast to the rich, dark head.

"Thank you, Master," comes the startled whisper as the orgasm crashes into him, soars through him, rushes out of him in a blinding whirl.

The Master cannot help himself. It is, after all, not fair that the Padawan enjoy all the delicacies. He lays the young body on the bed and laps at the pearls of bitter seed strewn across the tight belly, relishing every writhing stretch of muscle, every sighed moan, every breathless 'thank you, Master' and 'yes, Master' he hears.

When he has finished his feast, and the slender form lies sated and at peace, he buries his nose in the thick reddish curls that surround the tender organ and breaths in the luxurious scent.

A luxury, yes, that is what it is. But there is not always time for luxury.

He prods his nearly unconscious Padawan gently, but firmly.

"Rise, Obi-Wan. You have time before our meeting to shower, fix your hair."

It would not do to go appear before the Jedi Council with a Padawan's braid so obviously kinked.