Predicaments Beyond Our Control

by Gloriana

TITLE: Predicaments Beyond Our Control
AUTHOR: Gloriana
ARCHIVE: M_A
PAIRING: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan
CATEGORIES: Kink, BDSM
RATING: You have to be 89 to read it.
NOTES: This was supposed to have been a little 8-minute story, for the weekly flashslash prompt. Like Topsy, it grew; so Laura McEwan has to share some of the blame for setting the prompt to begin with :) Dr Squidlove was roped into betaing; and as usual hit the exact spot where I had been most slapdash. How she can always spot them, I don't know, but I'm grateful. At times.
SETTING: Events leading up to this story didn't happen in canon, but it is set in the canonical universe, just stretched a little. I call this an AR.
DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owns these lads, and would disapprove greatly of the uses I put them to, I'm sure. But they're just so tempting...
SPOILERS: None.
FEEDBACK: All welcomed. Positive to me, please; negative or equivocal to list or me as you see fit: gloriana@virginqueen.com
SUMMARY: A Jedi is trapped in a cellar, contemplating what will happen to him in a very few minutes.
WARNINGS: Per the categories, kinky, pain-full fic. If the implication of blood disturbs you, you might prefer to go elsewhere. Sex'n'violence, gleefully mixed.

The flail hung from a hook on the wall.

Obi-Wan hung from chains slung over a wooden crossbeam, watching it.

Strictly speaking, he supposed, it wasn't a flail in the traditional agricultural sense of the word. It had a wooden handle, and seven leather strips had been woven round the wood, with another good metre of each strip left to dangle down. But the thongs were tipped with tiny iron crescents like the claws of a cat, not the bars of wood that might have threshed wheat.

They would bruise far less. They would cut more.

He swallowed convulsively; screwed his eyes shut; opened them again. The flail was still there.

How unkind of them, to leave the instrument of his coming punishment hanging in front of him like some grotesque cranefly, its spidery legs black against the crumbling grey stone. It left him far too much time to imagine the leather landing on his bared flesh. He swallowed again, clenching his jaw so his teeth wouldn't chatter.

It wasn't just nerves: in the damp of the cellar, it was hard to stop his naked body shivering. The chains that pulled his arms over his head jingled softly, keeping time with the shudders he couldn't repress. Barrels of beer loomed in the shadows beyond the light of the single wall sconce; under his soles, the flagstones were chill. He shuffled his feet ineffectually. The unyielding shackles round his ankles spread his legs apart, and the cold was shrivelling his exposed balls and cock.

It was the sight of the flail, though, that sunk a pit of cold in his belly. He waited, trying to keep his breathing even and his senses alert, for quite some time before the trapdoor behind him swung open. Wooden stairs creaked under the weight of the men descending; Obi-Wan counted two.

"It'll take you but half an hour," one said. Obi-Wan recognised the officious tone of the innkeeper. "Here's the key to let him down when you finish."

The man with him grunted acceptance.

"And do you a good job," the innkeeper admonished. "I don't want no complaints posted by my door. Keep him quiet."

"There'll be no complaints." Obi-Wan didn't know that man's voice: it was deeper than the inn-keep's, and the words were spoken flatly, with a harshness that had Obi-Wan trembling again.

"Hmmph. Best be so." Then the innkeeper was trudging back up the stairs, the trapdoor clanging shut behind him with a great noise that echoed round the shadowed walls. The man who had remained stepped forward, eclipsing Obi-Wan's view of the flail.

Sheer terror ripped through Obi-Wan's frame.

This was a monster - a giant of a man, long bare arms swollen with heavy muscle, huge scarred hands flexing under Obi-Wan's horrified gaze. Greying hair tumbled over massive shoulders; a broken nose hooked over a short, bristled beard and hard mouth. Eyes blazed very blue. Obi-Wan wondered wildly whether the innkeeper had conjured up some sort of afreet to deal with him.

Common sense returned the next moment. This was a man: large, it was true, but only a head or so taller than Obi-Wan. He wore the drab woollen leggings and heavy boots most of the people around here seemed to dress in; the leather apron that covered his broad chest instead of a smock was the main thing that marked him out. This must be the town blacksmith. A man no doubt more used to pounding into metal every day than flesh.

Oh gods. Why had he ever chosen to come to this bleak little place?

The man might have been thinking the same thoughts, for a slow smile pulled at his mouth. "Well, my friend," he said, his earlier severity replaced with a certain amused smugness. "This is what you get for buying on the cheap."

He would have sputtered an indignant reply - considerations of money had had nothing to do with the situation he'd landed himself in - but the leather bit jammed in his mouth reduced his words to a gurgle.

The man glanced back at the stairs. "I'd take that out and let you scream all you want, but Rob's got a full house upstairs tonight. No need to interrupt their fun."

Obi-Wan moaned behind the gag, shaking his head violently to dislodge it. The bit had been cinched too tight for that, the leather forcing his tongue flat. Still, the man seemed to understand what he was trying to say. "Regretting it now? Want to get out of it?"

He hung in indecision... then nodded emphatically, even while a bleak disappointment engulfed him. What an idiot he'd been. The money - the effort in arranging this - the secretive journey to an anonymous little planet on the Rim, where the Jedi would never know he'd been - all wasted. He might even have to pay more from the few funds he had left to bring this bargain to an end.

But it was his own cowardice that most distressed him. He dropped his head in shame. Was he going to spend his whole life wanting this, and never plucking up the courage to do it?

It took him a moment to realise that the man hadn't moved to release him.

When he looked up, fear beginning to curdle his stomach once more, he met narrowed blue eyes searching his face. His breath stopped.

The man nodded, slowly, thoughtfully, as if he had come to a considered conclusion. "Too late for regret, lad," he said. He halted any garbled protest Obi-Wan might have made with a single raised hand. "You want it. For all your yawping, it's there in your eyes. Here, too." A hand wrapped itself around Obi-Wan's cock, which had risen up without him even realising. Callouses scraped over the soft skin.

Please! No! Obi-Wan shouted out with his mind. His hips spoke a different language, pushing up into the man's hand. A thumb dragged across the tender cock-slit and his knees slackened.

"Yes," the man said irrefutably. "You want it. And I am the man who will give it to you." He let Obi-Wan's cock go to reach out for the flail. Its handle was swallowed by his broad hands.

"I'll cut you gentle at first," he said, shadows darkening blue eyes to indigo. "But it won't be gentle at the end."

Obi-Wan began to shake again, pulling urgently at his bonds, making the chains rattle in his agitation. The man ignored his efforts, walking out of Obi-Wan's sight to a spot behind him. He craned his neck to see, whining pleas behind the gag: no words of protest, only entreaty. If he could change this, he would, he would -

A hand settled on his nape, as if he were a recalcitrant horse the blacksmith was seeking to calm. "Quiet now. Look forward."

The decision had been taken from him. Heart pounding, Obi-Wan struggled to obey instead. Only when the chains had gone silent, and the noises slapping against the stone walls had diminished to Obi-Wan's quick panting breaths alone, did the flail whirr into life.

Fierce bee stings exploded across the width of his shoulders.

Obi-Wan cried out as the little claws caught in skin, before the leather slackened and slithered back down to his hips in a caress as gentle as the strike had been harsh. "Unnhh!"

The punctures had taken fire almost before the first shock was past, seven distinct spots on his right shoulder-blade burning like embers pressed to his flesh. There was a deeper, warmer throb to the stripes laid across him shoulder to shoulder; but they were as nothing -

The second blow struck him unawares. He tried to yell, bucking in the chains. It was long moments before the flare of mindless pain resolved into separate burning lines painted lower down, round his ribs. This time, the claws had curled round under his arm. Every gasping breath brought their serrations to a nice pitch just short of agony.

"The other side now," the man said in an even voice. "Harga hide cuts deep - the skin's already broken. You'll feel the difference."

No! I'm begging you - let me be!

Once again he was soothed by strokes to his hair and nape, incongruously gentle. "Bite down on the leather. It'll help."

Tears spiking on his lashes, Obi-Wan clenched his jaws around the bit, holding on desperately. He wasn't made to wait long. The sound of footsteps to his right, and then the fire of the flail, falling across the rows already ploughed over his shoulders.

Oh gods! He lurched forward, frantic to get away, but the fourth blow came swiftly after, landing true against his ribs and knocking all the breath out of him. Winded, he slumped into the chains.

"Take its measure." The man's hands came to buttress his waist, the thongs of the flail brushing against his leg. "Give it some time."

All the way down his spine to the base of his diaphragm the lashes had crossed, leaving the flesh pulsing with a low furious heat, vicious counterpoint to the savage claw-nips at his sides. He moaned into the gag as the sensations built, the sting of the lashes worsening and deepening. His head lolled back onto the man's shoulder, tears sliding uncontrolled into his opened mouth and dribbling down his chin. He could not have stood without the man's support.

Unbelievably, the man chuckled into his sweat-streaked hair. "Your prick's still content - has more sense than you do." Then the hand without the flail was on his stomach, closing over his still-erect cock; and all the flame over his back blazed into his belly to follow it. The hand fondled him, running over his genitals and squeezing lightly until he was whimpering, helpless to do otherwise. It was not that the pain had gone, as he'd often thought it would, reading about this. It hurt -oh, it still hurt! But the urgent clamour of his skin for icy relief was also a mounting pressure in his balls, a burning at the tip of his cock. He'd never needed like this before. Please, ah, let me -

"No. Not yet."

So he held, and endured, while the man pumped him in long, deliberate passes. Rough skin pulled on delicate tissue in a caress that was pleasure and pain itself, the pain just enough to keep him back from orgasm.

"There," the man crooned, nuzzling at the soft curve of Obi-Wan's neck. The short hairs of the man's moustache scratched into him. "Easier?"

Obi-Wan gulped back a last mouthful of tears and nodded.

"Good." He was released; the man stood away. "Time to have you up on your toes."

He knew what was coming. He'd written the orders himself, handed them on a tightly-folded bit of paper to the innkeeper, who'd glanced at them and given him a price without further comment, as easily as he had rented Obi-Wan a room the night before. Could no-one have warned him then just what an arse he was being?

The man laughed out loud, as if he'd caught that self-deprecating thought and been amused. He patted Obi-Wan's naked behind in light remonstrance, making the vulnerable flesh twitch in anticipation. "You've put the blame on the right place. But it's a fine arse nonetheless." The man's touch firmed. He grasped and kneaded Obi-Wan's cheeks until they had stopped quivering, and Obi-Wan had relaxed involuntarily into the steady massage. The awful sting of his back, it seemed, served only to have him crave more intimate caresses.

A finger slid into his crack and he shuddered, trying to push back onto it.

It left. The flail came.

He was already flinching forward before it hit, his muscles immediately taut against the chains at the very sound of the leather whipping through the air; but there was no escape to be had. The seven thongs raked him from the curve of his hip down to the overhang of his buttocks, each one snaking round to bite its tooth into the soft flesh of his side.

He screamed. The sound was muffled by the gag.

The man did not wait for it to stop. Instead he stepped to one side and swung again while Obi-Wan was still wailing, this blow finding the other buttock. Obi-Wan arched up, grabbing onto the chains with his hands, trying to haul himself out of the way. Please - mercy -

The third stroke cut underneath, splaying across the back of his thigh and up over the jouncing bottom-cheek, grazing the slashes already there. The metal claws spattered along the outside curve of his leg like burning fat. Obi-Wan screamed twice more, incapable of stopping even though his lungs had to be empty, fighting to pull himself up the chains, to get away - The last cut took him lowest of all, raking across the other thigh, and his toes left the ground, legs bucking out in a ludicrous dance. Ah - oh - stop it! Stop it!!

No more came, but he shook and kicked despite that, the chains jangling madly.

"Down," the man told him. There was a sternness to that order which penetrated even through the agony that was now his backside. Weeping, he slid to the ground.

Welts, instantly formed, burned across every part of his arse, a conflagration more fiery than anything he'd imagined from this. Now that the lashes had stopped falling, and he was no longer in the first paroxysms of shock, he could appreciate them better. Still hanging on to the chains for dear life, he twisted and writhed as if that might ease it. Oh gods, oh Force, oh please...

That hand again, on the small of his back this time, the only place from nape to knee the flail had not marked. Obi-Wan shuddered under the gentle pressure, sobs giving way to moaned incoherencies which were not even intended to be words. A thumb stroked across the soft, untouched skin, a silent command for him to stop his jiggling. The flame of the lashes had not dimmed; it was impossible to control himself. Yet he had to try. Slowly, Obi-Wan grew still.

In reward, fingers crawled into his crack. He jerked when they brushed the fresh stripes, and found himself whining; but when the man said, "Shove out your arse, young fool," he did so, going up on his toes again to thrust his buttocks back. The concentration needed to balance there was enough to make the sudden tension on abused flesh endurable. He'd stopped shaking, although snot and tears still ran down the back of his throat.

It took him time to realise that there was oil dribbling down into the proffered cleft; and although nothing could possibly hurt him as much as his poor bottom now did, he found himself grateful for the oil when two thick fingers pressed into his hole. He groaned, straining to take them, the uncomfortable stretch more than he could easily cope with on top of all the rest. The man did not temper the force he was using; but he didn't rush either, giving Obi-Wan long moments to get used to the pressure of wide, bony joints driving in.

A third finger shoved the other two apart.

"Mmmph." That was all the noise he could make, because, as before, he suddenly wanted - needed - had to have - anything. Anything this man with three stout fingers up his hole would give to him. He moaned again, thrusting himself back on to them, begging mutely to be fucked. Beaten. Sucked dry. Whatever this man pleased. Anything to let him come.

He bleated like a straying lamb when the fingers were withdrawn. "Tscha," the man kissed his teeth in remonstrance. "Look at you - so ready." Something else pressed in between his splayed legs, a wider object but cooler than flesh. Obi-Wan's arse tightened gratefully around it. "You'll keep that in place, hey?"

He nodded his head emphatically, clenching his burning cheeks together. The object protruded between them.

The man walked round to face him, while he settled gingerly back on his heels before glancing up.

Such solemn blue eyes he found looking down on him! He'd forgotten, in just these few minutes - had it been as much as twenty minutes since this had begun? Surely not - quite what the man looked liked, how striking that craggy face really was. Caught between a hiccough and a last jerky sob, Obi-Wan was suddenly aware of what a mess he must present, his face blotched with tears, sweat plastering his hair to his skull, his stupid prick still jutting out between spread legs, who knew what crammed up his arse. A young fool indeed.

A smile softened the serious gaze. "Youth's excused by beauty. For old age..." The man shrugged. "There's no cure." The smile was still there, but it had a wistful quality that had Obi-Wan tugging on his chains, moved by a sudden urge to reach out and cradle that face in his hands.

The man pulled back, the smile gone. "Think it's over? Don't you remember what you asked for?"

Gods, no. No.

He couldn't bear it.

He began to whimper behind the gag, begging - I've had enough - but the man paid no mind. "I'll aim true," he said, his even voice cutting through Obi-Wan's snivellings. "You've yet to feel the full weight of my arm, and I intend to let you have it now. Best prepare yourself."

Perhaps the man had thought Obi-Wan could quieten down, as he had both times previously. But he couldn't. He wrenched at the chains holding his legs apart, yammering like a baby. They didn't give, the shackles solid above his anklebones, so the only thing he managed was to bruise himself. But he couldn't stop tugging on them, the instinct to pull his legs together as involuntary as it was futile.

The man watched Obi-Wan squirm, face dispassionate. Is that how he'd looked when the flail had come down? Then he stepped to Obi-Wan's left, the accursed thing thwapping softly against the leather of his apron.

Please! Anywhere else! My chest - my back - my arse again - that'll hurt more -

"Watch me this time," the man said in his low, deliberate voice. "Know that it's coming."

The breath whistling in and out of his nose, Obi-Wan watched the flail with the fascination a rabbit shows for the stoat in the grass. The man's powerful arm swept the handle up; the strands of leather seemed to float behind the clenched fist, each gleaming claw catching the light as it crested and came down.

An inferno blazed across the front of Obi-Wan's left thigh. He howled, feeling every single strand curve around and whip into the defenceless flesh between his legs, from an iota below his testicles to the tendon defining the back of his knee.

All words were gone. He thrashed in his bonds, incapable of knowing which way to move. The sweat poured down his limbs, salting the new cuts to make him fight more wildly yet. "Mmm-waghhh!" came through the gag, unheeded as the man walked in front of him, to his right. The flail lifted.

Despairing, Obi-Wan screwed his eyes shut, his mouth still making its piteous sounds. A split second later, lava spewed across tender, unmarked skin.

He thought he would pass out - his head was swimming, small explosions lit the space behind his eyelids - and the pounding in his ears made the sound of the flail hitting the flagstones seem so far away. There was nothing but the scarlet agony between his thighs.

He came back to abrupt awareness when the thing in his anus shifted and was pulled loose. Snorting like a horse ridden hard, his eyes bulged as he waited, knuckles white on the chains. Something else - something hard and large and very human - was butting against his hole to take the thing's place.

It got purchase.

Sobbing, he gave himself up to the sensation of its long, distending glide in. The man growled, grabbing at Obi-Wan's thighs to push harder; he accepted the intense burn of hands grasping the newly-whipped skin, wriggling to aid them in their task. There was a low groan behind him, and then the abrasion of cloth on his buttocks, bringing them to full flame again: he keened with the flare of it, still too urgent for the penetration to pull back. The man was pressing full-length against him, the leather apron scraping against his shoulder blades, the shaft he needed sinking deep. It rubbed itself on the inner contours of his anus, pulling out, shoving all the way back in.

He - oh gods, it was too much. His body yielded, overwhelmed; as he sank the man lifted him, his weight settling on the mighty root, his feet lifting to hook themselves behind the man's booted calves. He let himself be shoved up and pulled down, shuddering with the violent motion. The chains around his wrists helped hold him aloft.

"Yes!" the man said fiercely, cramming himself in. "You want to be fucked - come on. Give it to me - "

Obi-Wan shook his head, incapable of any more sensation.

"Do it!" the man commanded, surging into Obi-Wan, hands brutal on the new wounds. One gathered his testicles, closing over them in a steady, even pressure. Obi-Wan yelled into the gag, his entire body convulsing, the pain too much to be borne, the pleasure spiking madly. "Come now, boy. Come for me."

I - I can't!

But he could - oh, he could, if the cock ramming into him would just take him that little bit higher, split him that little bit wider. If his skin could sting sharper, his balls swell fuller, if every nerve in his body craving release could just have - something more! -

A thumb pressed beneath his cock-head; fingers wiped ungently over the oozing slit. "Now!"

That last small burn was enough. He came, shrieking, his seed spurting up in a glory that whited out all the pain for ever and ever.

~ ~ ~

When he finally woke, blinking up at rough-hewn wooden rafters lit by a late evening sun, he discovered that wasn't quite so.

His arse ached inside. Hardly a surprise; but what took him aback was that not much else did. The sheet was rough beneath his shoulders, but there was none of the burn he would have expected from the fire of the strokes laid across them. And when he shifted a leg beneath the blankets, no searing pain attacked his thighs. His hand twitched, exploring. The skin there was still smooth...

"I have a salve works fine for cuts and grazes. We put it on you while you slept."

Obi-Wan sighed, letting his eyelids drift shut again. I might have guessed.

A warm curl of amusement drifted into his mind, easy to recognise. He was beginning to know the flavour of this man. "Not that you Jedi need such things," the man went on calmly.

"You - " His outburst ended in an undignified bout of coughing, his throat raw from the screams of the night before. Apparently they had not tried to cure that.

Water mixed with honey was brought to his lips; he sipped it until the first dryness had eased. "Thank you," he said, the words slipping past the snags in his throat this time.

"You're welcome." The man leant back, the rocking chair creaking on the bare floorboards.

Gingerly Obi-Wan pushed himself up to sit, careful in case he found any other unexpected injuries. "You know who I am." For all his worries about being tracked by the Jedi, he hadn't foreseen this.

"What, not who," the man corrected. From the window ledge where he'd placed the mug he picked up a pipe: the faint blue haze wafting with the breeze told Obi-Wan he'd been smoking it for some time. The leather apron had been changed for a faded grey smock; other than that and the pipe, the man looked much as he had the evening before. A country-man, a peasant farmer. Not someone who could recognise Jedi.

"Met your kind before. Don't fret, boy. No-one else here guesses."

Obi-Wan exhaled, unclenching his hands below the bedsheet. "I'm sorry. The things we did... They're not encouraged in the Order."

There was a chuff of laughter, mingled with pipe-smoke. "There's a shock."

Curious, Obi-Wan looked at him more closely. He'd propped his feet back up on the bed rail, boots inches from Obi-Wan's knee. In the daylight, the mouth that had seemed hard to Obi-Wan looked more generous, the lines around the eyes and nose deeper. The smock hid the musculature Obi-Wan knew filled out his lanky form.

The eyes were still that amazing blue. "What's your name?"

"Jinn," the man replied. "No need to tell me yours. I guess it isn't the one you gave to Rob."

"Ben will do," he said, slightly shamed at having been caught in the lie. "You work for the innkeeper, then?"

"On occasion. I'm blacksmith here, carpenter, part-time whore," Jinn said, smiling, "and I've been many other things it pleases me not to remember, in places left long behind."

"I see." Obi-Wan's eyes dropped to his hands, which were still cowering under the sheets. "Are you the reason, then... why there are rumours about this place? That there's someone here who knows how..." It was surprisingly hard to finish the question.

"How to beat foolish young men?" Jinn asked. "Aye, that'd be me. I was a hire in a pleasure house on Farrgho's Moon, years gone by. Learnt the trade there. Such things follow you, you'll find."

Obi-Wan's head jerked up; but there was no threat in that steady gaze, merely a tired wisdom. "So you don't really like it," he said, deflating. After the terror and excitement of their encounter in the cellars, it was lowering to think Jinn had taken on the job with reluctance.

There was a moment's silence. "I liked it with you. Far more than a man ought to."

"Oh."

"I'd have tumbled you without there being money in it, if you'd asked."

Obi-Wan's mouth twitched. "I didn't know you to ask."

The dry answer came back immediately. "You know me well enough now."

Obi-Wan laughed out loud at that, absurdly pleased at the gentle teasing. "My rear end won't dispute the fact."

Jinn tapped the the pipe against the arm of the chair, tamping it down. "So what brings a Jedi here? An old whore's fading reputation?" Those eyes were narrowed, and Obi-Wan wondered what else Jinn was looking for.

"Just that," he said truthfully.

Jinn relaxed back into his chair, but he wasn't at ease. Down below them in the taproom, the early evening custom was beginning, just as it had the last few nights Obi-Wan had spent at the inn. Nothing seemed amiss. But there was something...

"You're Force-sensitive," Obi-Wan said slowly, finally understanding why Jinn was so clear in his mind. The touch wasn't that of a trained Force-user; but there was a delicacy and focus to it the untrained usually lacked. Not that Obi-Wan had come across any so old, to know what a Force-user might learn, unaided by Temple teaching.

The man nodded. "Parents wouldn't let the Jedi have me. Still, turned out to be a useful skill for dealing with clients, especially those who want whips and gags and the like."

"I suppose so." Silently Obi-Wan marvelled: the man must have shared at least part of his pain last night, if he had such empathy. Yet he'd laid the flail to Obi-Wan's flesh without hesitation. Just as Obi-Wan had truly wanted.

"We can talk of what you wanted later," Jinn said gruffly, and Obi-Wan knew his second suspicion was correct: this man could read him, even when he wasn't projecting his thoughts. Powerful then, untrained or not. "Meanwhile, you might as well have this back." Jinn reached under the bed and drew out the flail. Its heavy mass landed over Obi-Wan's knees. "I cleaned it up this morning. Rob said it was yours."

"I must have been crazy," Obi-Wan murmured, finally getting his hands free of the sheets to pick the thing up. It hung loosely, the bits of metal catching golden tongues of sunlight from the window as if it were a decorative toy. "I had no idea what it would feel like." Yet his treacherous cock stirred between his legs, just as it had done four months ago when he'd picked the flail up in a street market, light years from here.

"You don't start small, that's certain."

Obi-Wan laid the flail back down. The leather glistened against the sheets. "Where should I have begun?"

Jinn shrugged. "A slapping. Maybe my belt. Whips and flails can come later, when you're jaded. The brush I use grooming my horses - now that alone would have you hopping soon enough."

Obi-Wan breathed in deeply. "I'm sure it would," he said. Fine sweat pricked at his palms.

"Enough of that." Jinn didn't seemed to be annoyed at Obi-Wan's involuntary response, if the little crinkles round his eyes were anything to go by. But that underlying sense of disquiet still rested on him. "There's summat I have to ask you first."

The question seemed to be causing him as much trouble as Obi-Wan had found in asking about Jinn's professional expertise: he fiddled with his pipe, tamping the tobacco until it went out, while Obi-Wan waited in silent attention. Finally he laid it down on the window ledge. Obi-Wan had a fleeting sense of a decision being made. "Does the Force bring visions? Of the future, I mean to say."

"To some," Obi-Wan answered. "I've had them, though nothing that's proved true so far. I didn't even know where I was or what I was really seeing. My master says such visions cannot be trusted: they show possibilities, not certainties, their paths always shifting under our feet."

"Mine don't change," Jinn said flatly. "I've seen you - no, don't ask. I won't talk about it." There was a grimness to him that made Obi-Wan nod his head in unwilling acceptance, despite his surprise at what Jinn had said. He'd never seen this man in his own visions. "And I've seen a monster with red markings and a red sword, like your lightsabres," Jinn went on.

Obi-Wan's eyes opened at that, but all he could detect from the man was an aura of certainty. "There's deceit, too," Jinn grunted. "A man in a cowl - he'll make fools of the wise. I can't see an end to the folly."

"You have to tell me more," Obi-Wan said gently, when it was clear Jinn had finished speaking.

Jinn shook his head. "That's all. But there's one thing your Force tells me, little Jedi. You're to keep your silence about this place." Jinn slipped off the chair, coming to kneel by the bed. He interlaced Obi-Wan's hands with his own. "Say to no-one that you've been here. It can be a refuge for you, when...if the time comes."

"There's no-one I would discuss this with," Obi-Wan hastened to assure him. The worry in those blue eyes was disconcerting, although Obi-Wan found it hard to take tales of red lightsabres and cloaked men too seriously. Maybe he should have told the man what else his master had said: that most Force visions were utter rot.

"Say it to no-one," Jinn repeated. "Not even your master."

Obi-Wan thought of the look on Count Dooku's face, if he discovered what Obi-Wan had done here. Dooku believed him to be on a retreat to absorb the lessons from his first year as a Knight. Well, Obi-Wan had certainly learnt things about himself, but not of the kind his old master could ever have taught him. "You needn't concern yourself unduly. The last thing I want is anyone from the Order to find out." He squeezed Jinn's hands back. "This lies between you and me."

"No penitential confessions." Jinn was fierce. "No confidences to friends. No begging for advice."

"I promise." Obi-Wan pulled Jinn's hand to his heart, a lash from the flail somehow entangling itself between their fingers. "You have my word."

"Good. Three times said, one time true." That air of unease slid away from Jinn, and it was as if the whole atmosphere of the room had changed - as if an evening breeze had picked up and swept fresh air in through the window.

Suddenly Obi-Wan was aware of the fingers spread near his nipple.

"Jinn..." Obi-Wan whispered.

"Qui-Gon. That's my given name." Jinn stared up at him, and a thumb grazed across the soft brown flesh. Obi-Wan drew a breath.

"Qui-Gon. Kiss me."

He didn't even know whether professional whores kissed, much less part-time ones with Force visions and blacksmiths' hands. But he parted his lips, just in case.

Qui-Gon touched his own to them gently. The kiss that followed was slow and sweet and heady as the innkeeper's strong stout, a prickle of moustache against Obi-Wan's lips, a tongue laced with pipe-smoke pushing in. Obi-Wan moaned, bringing up his hands to twist into Qui-Gon's hair. When Qui-Gon stopped he was panting, and his nipple was a hard little point against Qui-Gon's palm. The single lash from the flail was still caught between them: the pressure of Qui-Gon's hand had scraped the corner of its metal claw against the tender nub, scratching but not breaking the skin.

Qui-Gon brushed away the lash and leant, licking at the mark on the uprisen bud. Then he slowly bit down.

Obi-Wan quivered, accepting the sting, holding that mouth to his breast until Qui-Gon had finished. "Oh, Jinn," he sighed.

"My hand or the belt," Jinn growled. "I don't intend to cut you again so soon."

"Whatever you say," Obi-Wan promised, putting gentle pressure on the silky hair between his fingers until Qui-Gon had shifted up onto the bed. His weight settled over Obi-Wan's stomach and erect penis. "Whatever you say, my Master."

Unnoticed by either of them, as Qui-Gon finally began to work him over, the flail slithered back to the floor.

~ ~ the end ~ ~

Read the sequel, A Distant Refuge by WriteStuff.