Master Apprentice
Archive
Of Pets and Furniture
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Rating: NC-17
Archive: M-A, SB
Series: SB-- http://www.livejournal.com/users/jinn_kenobi although this fic stands alone.
Categories: Q/O, PWP, AU, BDSM, kink, POV (Obi)
Feedback: Yes, please.
Summary: MMoM, Ruth and Hilary style.
Spoilers/Warnings: BDSM, reference to flogging and bondage.
Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.
Notes: In this particular arc, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan have long since discovered their kinky sides. Qui-Gon has recently been sold on the block at a local BDSM house, and Obi-Wan now owns him (like he didn't already, but we digress). This is a post-Naboo, post-knighting AU series.
Follow-up will be posted at the Jinn_Kenobi journal. If you would prefer an arc that is rather more of the socially acceptable nature and rather less of the kinky shenanigans one (ahem ;) please go to http://www.livejournal.com/users/qui_and_obi, which is Mali Wane's and Nansi Alexander's exceptional LJ series.
Credits: Without Ruth, this wouldn't have happened. Without Kriski, there would be errors where there aren't. If there are errors, they're because I kept tweaking.
/..../ thoughts.
To say I very much enjoy our life together since the auction is a massive understatement.
On this particular evening we had shared a quiet dinner, settling in from a few very intense nights immediately following my purchase of him. Now we truly lived a double life: by day he was a Jedi Master, a scholar, a warrior, steeped in serenity and calm. By night he was a slave and a pet by turns, someone who existed solely for my pleasure and amusement. It was a hard thing to grow accustomed to. Qui-Gon Jinn, my pet. When our day ends, he routinely strips, prepares himself, and sets about doing whatever I wish him to. He follows me at the end of a leash if I will it, or goes where I tell him: to bed, against the wall, into the tub, over the table. It is heady and unreal to have him at my beck and call, and yet here he is. I own him.
He was kneeling companionably against my leg, naked, as I brushed his hair and shared a pot of tea with him. We had lit a few candles and had dimmed the main lighting system for a little peace. He was still somewhat marked from the night before (and the night before that, truth be told) and so this night was meant to be restful and easy. We chatted about our life, for the most part. I voiced some concerns that Mace might have figured us out ("I haven't seen your master in a while," he had observed. "I hope you aren't keeping him too tied up."); Qui-Gon reassured me that our secret, had he figured it out, would be safe with Mace. Then the conversation shifted a bit to encompass my concerns that our deeply personal activities might end up dining hall fodder for the gossip-mongers.
I thought of Ros and went silent. Qui-Gon's former lover would adore nothing better than to have something as juicy as word of a master/slave relationship to toss about. Qui-Gon couldn't understand the man's spitefulness. I knew it for what it was: jealousy, pure and simple. There is a precarious line between envy and anger, and Ros crossed it frequently where Qui-Gon was concerned.
But after a moment, we let that topic slide away. As I played with Qui-Gon's hair, watching the color of it shift from dark to light in the dim, yellow flickering, Qui-Gon spoke, half-wistful, of how Mistress Rose and her staff of submissives and dominants lived like this all the time. No switching back and forth between a "normal" world and this one. No succumbing to duty. This was their duty.
"We take what we can get, love," I responded, low, and stroked the brush through his hair once more before setting it aside.
"Oh, of course," my lover conceded, turning a bit to look at me. "I'm well aware of how fortunate I am. It is a pleasant fantasy, nothing more."
I smiled, still combing my fingers through his hair, watching it slide away and doing it again. "And how would you like your fantasy served up tonight, my pet?"
Qui-Gon's smile was its own light. "However this slave's Owner desires," he replied, falling back on that awful third-person formal language the House had taught him.
I rolled my eyes at him. "Oh, please. You aren't allowed to depersonalize yourself that way. That's my job, as I must so often remind you."
He continued to smile. "Yes, Obi," he said, his amusement plain. But then he hesitated before speaking again as the smile slipped away. "And... how would you go about depersonalizing me?"
I appeared to think about it, watching him wait somewhat nervously for my response. Actually, I had already given the matter a good deal of consideration and knew exactly how I would handle it.
"You'd end up as a table," I said after a few moments. "I would take out some pictures, spread them out over your back, and pleasure myself to them. It would be as if you weren't here." I watched his eyes widen minutely as I spoke. By the time I'd finished, his expression was both aroused and expectant.
"Oh," he replied softly.
I shrugged, as though my next words didn't matter: "Then I'd clean you up and put you away. Just another toy."
Force. How powerful it feels to cause a man so large, so strong on so many levels to squirm the way he did then.
I rose abruptly, indicating the floor. "On your hands and knees." My voice was firm.
The wash of arousal through the bond was thick and immediate even as he obeyed me and settled in, making himself as comfortable as one on his hands and knees can be. Immediately I began to disregard him. I took up my teacup and went into the bedroom, changing into sleep leggings, combing my hair, preparing, for all intents and purposes, for bed. Then I wandered into the room we had designated as the training room: my old padawan room. I found the pictures I had set aside. The camera ran on various nights, triggered by light and motion in the room. Qui-Gon wasn't aware these were in existence. He would know soon enough where I had hidden the camera and how it operated. I had no doubt he would want some pictures of his own.
I passed him on my way back through, setting the folder of flatpics on his back as I breezed into the kitchen for more tea.
I moved about the quarters as though I were alone. It was difficult to disregard him so. Oh there are many things about this life that are difficult to manage. Learning to use certain toys because he wants them--the single-tail, for example, or the knife, both of which I still practice--or stepping into a certain role for him to play against. This felt strangest of all, though. I completely ignored him, paying him no more mind than any other piece of furniture. It was more difficult than any other role I'd adopted.
/He wants this,/ I reminded myself, remembering the restrained, tense desire that had radiated from him as I described the scenario. /And if it proves too much, he will safeword./
Satisfied, I checked him one last time out of the corner of my eye, and then shifted my focus away. Qui-Gon was no longer there.
I took up a small cloth and held it under my mug of hot tea, using it to insulate my... play table... against the hot cup. Placing it on the small of his back, I opened the folder and began to thumb through it.
Some of the pictures were quite exciting; some provoked amusement in me. This one was him bracing himself in the window, waiting for my hand to land on his skin. That one was him kneeling at my feet, head bowed, arms behind his back. I was gesturing with the crop--what was it I'd been telling him? It didn't matter. Probably something utterly redundant, like "Don't go anywhere." I chuckled, drumming my fingers on his back and spreading the pictures out a bit.
There was one of Qui-Gon leaning against the window frame, staring out into Coruscant. It had apparently been snapped just before he went to the House for auction preliminaries; he did not have his piercing and the spanking bench was not in the room. His hair was still pulled back from duty; he'd only made it through removing his stola, belts and tunics before pausing, half-undressed, to gaze at the sky. His arms were folded over his chest and he looked wistful and lonely. Waiting. It touched me. I did not remember this sunset, nor did I remember this flatpic: it had snapped when I had not been here.
I wonder if he meditates in there lately. I shall have to ask him.
Thoughtfully, I sipped from my tea, setting the cup back down on the pad I'd made. I brushed my fingertips over the skin of his back as I withdrew my hand, watching gooseflesh break out over him even as he remained perfectly still.
I undid my leggings, reaching inside idly, stroking my half-erect shaft. I played and thought a moment, slowly and easily, then turned one more picture aside.
There. That was the one I wanted: Qui-Gon on the bench, red from ass to thighs, damp with sweat. His hair was disheveled and tossed everywhere. His mouth was open in a cry or a gasp, and he was gripping the armrests of the whipping bench hard. The leather was pinched and gathered under his hands. I remembered at that point he'd been struggling not to grind his erection into the soft padding beneath him.
I slid my hands under the waist of my leggings and raised my hips, pushing the fabric out of my way. I set the pic on top of the others and recalled that night, tucking one hand between my legs to fondle my balls, rolling them as my other hand drifted over my cock lightly. He knew very well what I was doing; I could feel it.
That night--just three nights ago--had been perfect. It hadn't been unique, certainly, but a simple night during which I'd honed my flogger technique. It is such a mild toy, such a graceful one, that I can use it for a good, long time on him. I did. A very long time.
His pain... it is always beautiful. He takes it so well. Thinking of him taking so much for me made me ache and shiver as I stroked myself harder, gripping my shaft firmly. I stared at the picture, remembering his sounds, the pleading he'd uttered when I'd ordered him to speak. I had paused in my flogging of him and he'd begged me to keep going. I had stroked my hand over his hot, welted skin and watched him shudder uncontrollably, moaning.
I slid down on the sofa, my knee bumping his hip as I moved my fist more quickly over my cock. The picture I'd been staring at slid to the floor, skidding near his hand. Oh, he could see it, I just knew he could. The surprise fluttered through the bond, muffled by his descent into the place where he existed only for me. He would realize the implications later, realize how much that picture meant to me. Now, he was only surprised that he'd ever been anything other than my table.
It did not take me long. The memory of his cries and moans and the knowledge that he'd allowed himself to be sold to me so that I could do this to him over and over again drove me over the edge. I groaned softly, jerking my hips as I splattered come over my stomach. It was not, certainly, anywhere near the screaming orgasms I so often had with him. Contented nevertheless, I sighed, slitting my eyes and watching him continue to hold perfectly still. I'd get my screaming orgasm yet. He would, too.
I curled forward and rose from the couch, tugging my pants up around my hips and holding myself carefully so that I wouldn't end up with come everywhere. I chuckled, shaking my head, thinking I should have remembered to bring a towel with me.
"Jerking off like I did when my braid was new," I muttered amusedly to myself for his benefit, padding to the kitchen. I toweled off, had a glass of water, glanced back into the common room: he was still there, silent and unmoving. So good. So obedient. So utterly, completely rock hard. It was thrilling, humbling and moving all at once. He truly had enslaved himself to me. Suddenly I was almost overtaken by the desire to gather him up and kiss him senseless, to prove to him how much I needed and loved this from him. Or simply to prove how much I needed and loved him.
Silently, I went back to him. I took up the photographs and the teacup from his back, as well as the flatpic that had fallen on the floor, and set them aside. Qui-Gon was shaking minutely, deeply in headspace. I considered a moment. Should I prolong it or bring him out? Deciding, I moved around him and headed for the bedroom.
I paused in the doorway and looked back over my shoulder, one hand on the doorjamb. "Come to bed," I told him. After a moment, he did.
End.