Archive: Yes to M_A; others please ask--I am unlikely to say
no. Will also appear at my site:
http://lonchura.tripod.com/slash.html
Categories: Angst, PWP, POV
Rating: NC-17 for smut, lotsa smut
Summary: Qui-Gon reveals an unexpected kink.
Thanks to JiM and DB Kate for encouragement, and hubby for not
making a fuss when I wanted to buy TPM, The Pillow Book,
and a Qui-Gon beanie.
Do I want feedback? Do the Sith want to rule the galaxy? This
is my first posted TPM story, so feedback and constructive
criticism are most welcome.
I am not supposed to want this, but I do.
I am kneeling at my padawan's feet. He is naked, leaning
negligently against the bulkhead of the ship, his head tipped
back against the cool metal, his eyes closed. The long, narrow
padawan's braid trails down across his chest, his belly, and
the unbound end of it hangs just before my eyes as I make love
to his cock with my mouth. I am fully dressed, wearing the
robes of a Jedi master, only my cloak and boots put aside, but
we both know who is in charge here, right now.
He is.
I know many people think that Jedi have no sexual lives,
perhaps even no sexual feelings. It is not true; it is merely
that we very rarely take partners, even temporary partners,
outside our own ranks. Whether for diversion or for a long-term
bond, Jedi favor Jedi. My padawan has had many partners, many
lovers, male and female, human and not; he is a master of the
arts of pleasure, and in this, I am his padawan.
I suckle tenderly on the sensitive head of his cock, knowing
now exactly how he likes to be savored, how to use my tongue
against the shaft, how to touch the heavy sacs as I lick the
cleft in the head. He shifts his weight, one leg straightening
out, the other bending in its place, and runs his hand over my
hair. I moan softly around his flesh; I have always been
unbecomingly susceptible to anything he does to my hair, and
well he knows it. His fingers smooth it back from my temples,
comb into its thickness, trace one brow. It is an old, old
custom among human Jedi to wear hair and beard long; it is for
Obi-Wan's sake that I keep the custom up, impractical though it
often is.
He is a small man, my Obi-Wan, much smaller in stature than I.
His homeworld, I know, has a somewhat heavier gravity than
Coruscant, as mine has a lighter; we are both typical of our
peoples in height and build. He is slender yet muscular, almost
but not quite lean, fair-skinned under his robes, and the hair
of his pubic region is surprisingly red, much more so than the
rest of his hair. His cock is formidable in its size, much
larger than one might suspect. I crave to have it inside me.
Sexual relations between Jedi are common. Sexual relations
between master and padawan are neither unknown nor forbidden.
In earlier times they were a regular part of the training
regimen, back when the different races mingled less, when
teacher and learner were normally of the same species. Nowadays
such a bond is not frequent, nor yet uncommon, but ancient
custom prevails in this one thing: The master is to be the
dominant partner. It is the master's privilege to initiate
sexual encounters, to take the lead in giving or receiving
pleasure, and above all to penetrate the apprentice if
penetration is mutually desired. The paradox is that the master
can take the lead only after the padawan has made the first
move and expressed a desire for a sexual relationship.
Xanatos seduced me. He was as conscious of his own beauty as
Obi-Wan is unconscious of his, and the pride that led him to
dominate his homeworld made him wish to dominate his master as
well. It was he who persuaded me to let him be the penetrative
partner, and I could refuse him nothing, ever. So it was that I
found my hidden weakness, my craving for the one thing I am
ordered to deny myself--the pleasure of yielding. I danced to
his tune and was so besotted that I never saw the betrayal
coming, the overweening lust to master and to control. I was, I
fear, the only one who did not see it.
Obi-Wan did not seduce me. He kissed me, on a fine spring day
in a meadow, on a mission which was turning out to be easier
and more peaceful than we had anticipated. We were sitting side
by side on the grass outside our tent, mending our clothes,
waiting for soup to come to a boil in a metal pot suspended
over a fire. He leaned over in a lull in our conversation and
pressed his lips to mine, warm lips, sweet breath, then sat
back and waited, half-smiling, to see how I would react. The
soup nearly burned away to nothing as we made love beneath the
open sky, and that very day I asked him to take me, to fill me.
He did not know it was forbidden; I did not tell him.
I have transgressed the ancient custom over and over, nearly
every time we come together, and I am about to transgress it
now as Obi-Wan tugs me to my feet. Strong, slender hands pull
me down into a demanding kiss; firm lips and craving tongue
hold me captive while the hands move on to peel the jacket from
my shoulders, to undo my sash. I submit willingly as my naked
lover strips me, baring me to his possessive gaze. His lips
quirk in that mischievous, un-Jedi-like smile which I love so
much.
"It's been too long," he says. I nod, answer hoarsely.
"Yes."
Perversion. My peers would call it perversion, if they knew. If
they knew how much I yearn to be dominated, to be possessed, to
surrender to this boy who holds my heart so casually in his
hands. I know that he loves me, with a genuine love that is
loyal, but it is nothing like what I feel for him. The love and
the sex are not bound together for him as they are for me,
twined into a knot that can never be unwound. It will only be
cut through, someday, when he is knighted and free to leave me.
He will still love me, but the day will come when he never
fucks me again.
I want to be fucked. I lie down on the bed willingly, on my
back, legs spread. My eyes are fixed on him and I wait for him
to join me, to cover my body with his. He takes his time, not
to tease me, but simply because he is in no hurry. His hunger
is not the same as mine; he never needs to rush. It should be
the other way around--my padawan impatient in his youthful
vigor, his master urging him to patience in this as in all
else. But I am the one who can hardly wait, who bites his lip
to hold back words of entreaty or demand. He calmly stands over
me for a moment, stroking his cock, looking at me with eyes
that seem to be looking elsewhere. I don't know what he's
thinking about, and he never tells me, at times like this. I
only wait for the moment when he kneels between my legs.
At last. I shudder with pleasure at the feel of his skin on
mine. He is compact where I am rangy, smooth where I am hairy,
quick to arouse and slow to come where age has made me the
opposite. I am twice his age, and I never forget it. But there
is genuine desire in those ambiguous eyes whose color cannot be
defined. He does love me, and respect me, as his master, and he
does desire me as his lover. I tell myself again and again that
he would not do this merely to gain the upper hand over me. The
pleasure I give him is as real as the pleasure he gives me.
His hands twine in my hair as he kisses me, clever fingers
massaging my scalp. I wrap my arms around him, running my hands
up and down the silky skin of his back. So many times I have
smoothed oils and lotions into that skin, repairing the damage
done by blaster fire, practice-level saber burns, windburn,
sunburn, frostbite, allergic reactions. He is not vain about
his looks, and he tolerates my attentions, looking on them
merely as a part of the healing process. For me they are times
I will look back on as part of our lovemaking.
When I arch up beneath him, he draws back. Now he is indeed
teasing me, keeping me roused without giving me enough
stimulation to come. Kisses on my forehead, cheeks, lips.
Taking my hands and kissing them, nipping and suckling on my
fingers. Lavishing attention on my nipples until I cannot
restrain my noises of pleasure. Suckling, cautiously, on my
erection, licking my balls, his nails stroking the insides of
my thighs. The impish grin widens as my control unravels.
"You're so beautiful, Qui-Gon. So responsive." He kisses my
knuckle, licks the pulse point of my wrist. The sound of my
name on his lips makes me writhe. "I want to fuck you now."
"Please...." I turn over onto my stomach, legs spread. Oh, this
is wrong, so wrong, but it feels so good. I know I should
master myself, I should take the role tradition expects of me,
but instead I want to lose control for this man half my age who
can make me whimper and moan. This is one victory over myself I
will never win. I only want him to master me, my compensation
for all the care and training I have given him, all the hard
decisions I have made, all the times I waked when he slept.
This is my reward.
Fingers that are firm and confident, yet gentle and careful,
seek the entrance to my body, bringing sweet oil inside. I moan
aloud as the first finger slides all the way into me, stroking
and stretching, assisted by the warmth of the Force. I do my
best to regain enough control to relax those muscles for him.
His other hand brushes aside the mass of my hair, and his lips
graze the back of my neck. "Please," I say again, trembling all
over.
Two fingers inside me, moving in and out, and teeth grazing my
shoulder. "Don't come," he whispers. My hips move with his
careful thrusts. I won't come, I won't let myself come. I use
the Force to open my body more for his.
"Obi-Wan...." Three fingers slide in carefully, hold still,
waiting while my muscles spasm, waiting until I relax just a
fraction more.
"Easy," he tells me. I sob aloud as his fingers slip out, press
back in. For a moment I crave his whole hand inside my body,
something he would be horrified to hear me ask for.
"Obi-Wan--"
"You need this. You need to be fucked."
"Yes." Pervert. I am a pervert.
"Turn over, just like this." He holds his fingers inside me,
and I shift limb by limb until I am on my back, never losing
the grip of my flesh on his. He is smiling, dazzlingly, as I
take hold of my thighs and pull them back out of the way.
I am panting, quivering, cold sweat in my armpits. Obi-Wan
lubricates his cock in a leisurely fashion. Then he pulls out
his fingers and replaces them with that greater thickness, that
silky flesh that is so hot under its coat of oil. I barely
restrain myself from howling.
"Ah, so tight...." He thrusts all the way in, kneeling between
my thighs, the muscles of his chest and belly standing out in
exquisite relief. "Your tight, hot ass, Qui-Gon...." He shakes
his head, seizes my ankles and drags my legs over his
shoulders. "Oh, my lover...."
I cannot speak. I can barely think. I want only this, the feel
of him pulling out and thrusting in, the perfect violation, the
smell of his body and the tickle of his braid falling over me.
The little plait of hair that never lets me forget what a
pervert I am.
He fucks me for a long time, my Obi-Wan. Tremors of pleasure
run through me, near-orgasms without ejaculation, rippling out
from my ass along my thighs, my stomach, my spine. He can go
slow or fast as he pleases--stop for a few breaths and master
himself--keep going until my legs and my back are aching, my
cock is begging, my insides are on fire with the sweet friction
of his thrusts. He keeps me on my back the whole time, his eyes
locked with mine, the same serious expression on his face that
he wears while taking a classroom test, or awaiting my
instructions during a challenging mission.
When he is about to come, when he can put it off no longer,
always his hand curls around my cock. With his unerring touch,
he wrings my deferred climax from me to coincide with his. I
spurt up against his belly now, gasping his name over and over,
while his face breaks open with joy and shock, a sharp wordless
cry escapes his throat.
We collapse together with him still on top of me, still inside
me. Again I let my arms come around him, caress his hair and
his smooth back and his ass. He sighs softly, a noise of
contentment and of imminent sleep.
"Love," I whisper to him.
"Qui-Gon," he says against my chest, kissing me lightly. One
hand glides up and twines into my hair, holding me captive.
My padawan, my master. But I do not say that. Cannot. Must not.
I am not supposed to want this, but I do. I do. And I always
will.
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