Warnings: Explicit sex between two hot guys. If it's not your
cup of tea, leave the pot for the rest of us.
Disclaimer: The characters are George Lucas's, bless him for
having such a fevered imagination, even if it's not as fevered
as mine. Don't sue. I even went to the charity re-release!
Notes: Another piece of the Warrior's Heart series, much out of
story order. And for pete's sake, just cuz it's a PWP, don't
just scroll down to the "naughty bits"; half the fun is getting
there. Even Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon know this.
Official story order as follows:
"Rightful Owner" PG-13
"Crime and Punishment" NC-17
"Ecstasies" NC-17
"The Anger Exercises" NC-17
"The Geometry of Desire" NC-17
"But For Grace" NC-17
"Give and Take" NC-17
"Meditations" NC-17
"Master & Apprentice" NC-17
"Nomenclature" NC-17
"The Fear Exercises" NC-17 (to come)
"Silk" NC-17
"A Simple Twist of Fate (Not a Songfic)" PG (to come)
"Emancipation" NC-17 (to come)
This story takes place about three years into Obi-Wan &
Qui- Gon's relationship, when they've worked out most of the
bugs, if not all the kinks. The series spans about five years
of time before, up to, and slightly after TPM, where it takes a
sharp left at a certain pivotal moment into AU, because I
believe George made a terrible mistake. There are some large
gaps, timewise, which I'll probably fill in now and then. If
anybody else wants to play here, feel free. It's a big sandbox
and I'm happy to share my toys, as long as I get to take 'em
home at the end of the day. (I wish!) Just let me know what
you're up to with them (wouldn't want them to get into trouble,
now, would we?).
Deep and sincere thanks to Kath Moonshine for criticism of the
best kind, and for a very useful beta, great suggestions for
the opening, and info about the rites of Bacchus. This one's
for you, kid.
Thoughts in */*; telepathy in //.
Summary: Happy anniversary, baby! Obi-Wan practices his skills
in slow seduction.
Feedback: The more I gets, the more I writes, so if you like
what you read, please feed the writer.Warning: Proportion of
writing to feedback may increase exponentially, unless I go up
in flames shortly. E-mail only, please.
The tunic and pants are crisply pressed and hanging ready in my
closet. I retrieved the uniform yesterday from the laundry, so
it has that universally pleasant clean smell. They're my fourth
and newest set of blacks I've had since becoming Qui-Gon Jinn's
padawan, the last three simply outgrown. This set has only been
worn twice, the last time at possibly the stuffiest embassy
reception I've ever been to, where the most exciting event of
the evening was watching my master in his own blacks.
That, I have to admit, was more exciting than most things I can
think of, but tonight will be much more so. Tonight, I get to
touch as well.
I take my black boots out of the closet along with the
polishing kit and sit down on my bed with one boot in hand.
They're a little dusty from disuse, but I usually clean them
every tenth when we're here, unless I wear them more often.
They're lighter and more supple than my field boots, not meant
for rough conditions, with a thinner sole and lower heel and no
buckles, fitting tight to my calf over the uniform pants. I
wipe the dust away with one cloth, then spread polish over the
soft leather of both boots with another before going back to
the first boot and beginning to buff it. It takes effort and
attention to produce the high gloss I want, and I've worked up
a sweat by the time I can see myself in the shaft and toes of
both boots.
I take a quick shower and wait for my master to return to our
quarters. By the time he does, he has had a long day full of
meetings and annoying, trivial discussions that have left him
in a foul mood. In some ways, that makes this even better. I
give him tea, rub his shoulders until they loosen, and suggest
he take a long, hot shower--stressing the "long" part--while I
make dinner. He tries to lure me into the shower with him, but
I decline, pleading kitchen duties. In truth, those are already
done, but I have other last-minute preparations to make.
Inside my room, where I have not slept in years, I lay the
blacks out on my bed, and strip out of the old tunic and pants
I've been wearing while getting things ready. The only thing I
have left to prepare is myself, and one step of that process
proves to be a little awkward. The hard part is getting the
lubricant in without making a sticky mess. I manage it,
finally, by lying on my side on my disused pallet. After that,
inserting the plug is simple. After wiping up, I pull on the
tight black pants and fasten them, smoothing out the wrinkles,
then pull on the tunic with its myriad annoying fasteners and
seal myself into it. Like the pants, it is skin-tight, made of
some clinging fabric, meant more for show than practicality.
The boots in their blinding glare go on last, and I'm ready.
I catch him coming out of the 'fresher, just as I'd planned, so
he smells wonderful, of soap and heat and skin, and the
essential maleness underlying it. His long hair lies in wet
ropes down his back and clings in damp tendrils to his powerful
shoulders and long neck. His beard is freshly trimmed and neat
on his handsomely weathered and craggy face. He's wearing
nothing but a towel wrapped round his trim hips and a flush of
color from the steam. At least for now.
I step in front of him as he heads for his bedroom and hold it
out to him. He arches his eyebrows in surprise, at both the
gift and finding me standing in front of him in my best blacks,
boots polished to a mirror sheen.
"What's this, Padawan?" He's torn between the gift and the
spectacle of me in this tight uniform--one of his favorite
sights, so he's told me.
"Something to mark our first ten years together, My Master," I
tell him. "Or had you forgotten?"
Obviously, he has, or has chosen to ignore it, but he smiles
cryptically and drops the towel, letting me help him into his
gift, shrugging it onto his broad shoulders and tying it around
his waist. I step back to admire.
It's just the right shade of blue. I knew it would be. I've
looked at--into--his eyes often enough to know the color well.
Unlike mine, they don't change color, unless they're black with
desire, and even then they are still ringed with that blue
that's nearly cobalt. They can be hard as blued steel, calm as
an evening sky, warm as the hottest part of the flame. Now,
with his body wrapped in watered blue silk that cost me-- well,
more than I've ever before spent in one place at one time for
one person--his eyes are cool and deep like two fathomless
pools. He steps over to the mirror for a brief, modest look of
his own, rubs the material experimentally between his thumb and
fingers, strokes his palms down his arms once, enjoying the
texture, then tucks his hands inside the loose sleeves as
though it were his cloak, and turns back to me, delight honest
in his face.
"Thank you, Padawan. It's splendid. You chose the color very
carefully, didn't you?"
"Yes, Master. It took me a long time to find the right one," I
acknowledge. He would notice that, though he's not a vain man.
Since we've become lovers, he's been more careful of his
appearance than before, keeping his hair and beard trimmed
neatly because he thinks it pleases me. In truth, I love him
both tangled and tidy. I love him however he comes to me. We've
been together when one could hardly see the other's skin for
mud, as well as in our dress blacks or fine clothing provided
for us by our hosts, in such states of raggedness and
wretchedness that we looked like beggars and more richly
dressed than kings. It makes no difference. Let him think it
does; there are few ways he can indulge me now, and I would not
deprive him of this one.
And there are few ways I can indulge him, for the time being,
though I would give him everything. Jedi have no real luxuries
and little money. There is a small stipend from the Senate for
each of us, that provides for some modest desires such as my
master's books and my instruments, but any wealth one of us
owns has been bequeathed by our own families. Everything
else--food, clothing, quarters, medical care, training
facilities, transportation, education, provisions for our old
age or crippling injury--is provided by the Temple, financed by
the Republic's and the Order's coffers. No one lives in luxury,
even here, and those away from any of the Temples on long-term
assignments often live in great poverty. Even those assigned
to, say, diplomatic duties on developed worlds often live in a
comparatively harsh asceticism. My master renounced the rights
to his family's own considerable wealth in becoming a Jedi;
mine has been held in trust for me and I tap it occasionally,
as I did for this gift. But I have learned, growing up in the
Temple, that the luxuries I most value cannot be bought.
He steps forward and pulls me into his arms, tilts my head up
for the kiss I know is coming, gentle at first, in gratitude,
warming as I return it. It's hard to say whose lips part, whose
tongue seeks whose first. Three years and we are still hungry
for one another. Each day I send my gratitude for that into the
Force to keep me from rolling and groveling at his feet as
though I were his pet and not his padawan. I've begun to
understand the tired maxim about serenity and passion, that it
has nothing to do with negating the emotion, only restraining
it, balancing it. How much longer it would have taken me to
learn that lesson were we not lovers: yet another debt I owe
him, one of many I can never repay.
Beneath my hands, the silk lies against his back like a second
skin, impossibly smooth and cool at first, slowly heating to
the warmth of his body. It follows the contour of shoulders and
waist and buttocks, falling from there to his ankles. I pull
away reluctantly and bow, because he is my master first,
motioning him ahead of me into the bedroom. A small noise of
surprise escapes him when he finds it a warm and candlelit
sanctum, purified by light and love, so I know he really wasn't
expecting this, was not, perhaps, even suspicious. Good. That
gives me more pleasure than he could possible know, that I have
learned to shield myself well enough to surprise him.
"You've been very stealthy, Padawan," he confirms, gaze roving
with pleasure from the vast bed stripped down to the linens and
piled with pillows and bolsters to the small table holding hot
and cold delicacies that I spent the day making or acquiring
and his favorite wines chilling in an ice bucket. "But I must
confess I hadn't thought--"
Before the regrets can spill out, I seal his lips in a kiss. We
have never mentioned it before, the anniversary of the day I
became his padawan. Some pairs do, some don't. There's no
tradition to follow. The date falls close to my birthday, which
he always remembers, as he does the date we first became
lovers, but this day has come to seem far more important to me
than the former, and entwined inextricably with the latter. I
think, too, he has put it from his mind because it reminds him
of his own stubbornness and the painful rejections between us,
both mine and his. But I have always felt my life truly began
on that date, that at the moment he first called me padawan, I
went from being a child to being, if not yet a man, well on my
way to becoming one. That he now loves me as he would any other
man is proof of how far he has brought me along that way, to
make me worthy of his love.
"But I have thought to mark it, My Master. Indulge me," I
reply, pulling back.
He cups my cheek in one large hand, traces my lips with his
thumb. "I rarely refuse you," he says quietly.
"Only when you think it best," I agree.
"What would you, then, My Padawan? In what shall I indulge you
tonight?"
I drop to my knees and bow, forehead on the ground between his
bare feet, laying my hands on them instead of the floor. "Let
me serve you, My Master."
There is a brief pause and his voice is husky when he replies,
so I know I have moved him. I would know without the bond
between us, but it is filled clearly and suddenly with love and
wonder--and desire--and I can hardly repress a shiver myself.
"As you wish, Obi-Wan."
"Thank you, My Master," I reply, running my hands from his
ankles to the backs of his thighs as I rise, then resting my
cheek against the silk over his groin. I feel his cock stir
with interest and smile a little. //Not yet, Master,// I tell
him, and get to my feet.
Shortly, I have him lounging against the pillows with a glass
of wine in his hand. I love watching him perform the rites his
little god demands, how he opens the bottle with reverence and
care, as though loosing a cherished spirit, brings the cork to
his nose to test the worthiness of what's been captured within,
lets the liquid breathe like a living thing for a time before
pouring, and when pouring it, how the neck never touches the
lip of the glass, how the bottle is swathed gently like an
infant. Then a slight swirl of the glass, followed by another
sniff and a small sip that he rolls across his tongue and
palate with the same care that he kisses. I've seen him spit
the first mouthful on the ground like a libation, or into some
ornate receptacle before pronouncing upon it like a high
priest, but he doesn't do that now, and I'm the one who pours
for him, as he's taught me. Still, some rites are not to be
forsaken, regardless. Swirl, sniff, sip, savor. The smile that
follows is one of pure carnal gratification and it sends an
almost illicit thrill right through me. My master is a man of
restraint and control, but he enjoys the physical pleasures of
the Living Force--pleasures of the body--as well as the
spiritual rewards of the Unifying Force.
"Excellent, Padawan," he murmurs, looking like some decadent
sensualist, leaning back against the pillows with one knee
bent, the silk of his new robe gaping a little across his
chest.
"Thank you, My Master," I reply. "You've taught me well." His
commendations are always a pleasure, given as they are only
when truly merited, and I bask in them like sunlight.
As he sips, I dry his hair gently with a towel and plait it
loosely down his back. It's grown quite long since we've been
together, nearly as long as my own padawan braid, and though
he's threatened to cut it shorter, I've begged him not to. I
love the weight of its mass in my hands, its raw-silk texture,
the whisper of it against my skin when we make love. Pulled
back, it emphasizes his high forehead and strong features, the
nose broken in a fight that nearly killed him, and the piercing
eyes set deep beneath dark brows, makes him even more beautiful
in my eyes. In return, I help him care for it, combing it out
after he's washed it, brushing it out at night and braiding it
when he asks and sometimes before he does: small services any
padawan would give any master. I am lucky to have this one, so
any service I can give him seems small.
As I braid his hair, I admire our reflection in the closet's
mirror, watching him savor his wine and watch me. He doesn't
look his 58 years and won't for some time to come. The more the
Force fills us, the more our lives expand--a paradox when one
considers that we seek oneness with the Force and that ultimate
oneness is found only in death. But we are the weapons of the
Force and it uses us as it will, and rewards us as it does. So
we age slowly and remain nimble longer--increasing the odds we
will die by violence. Everything has its price.
But we are taught to live in the moment, and the next moment
brings me to his side with more wine and a plate of warm
tidbits, as many of his favorites as I could find ingredients
and recipes for. Diplomats, as a rule, eat well and richly and
my master has been one for some time. His palate is
sophisticated, and I've seen him eat things I could barely
stand to look at. At the very least, he will enjoy the
experience of trying something new. At the same time, he is,
like most Jedi, as grateful for plain fare as high culinary art
and rarely refuses anything. At Temple, where the fare is as
plain as it comes, he sets to at table with as much pleasure as
if it were any of a number of diplomatic banquets we've
attended where the lavishness and quantity are almost shameful.
I have yet to decide if my master is a true hedonist or a
secret ascetic.
I fill a plate for him and stand at the side of the bed,
offering the delicacies one by one. He watches me as I bring
each one to his mouth, saying nothing, as I watch him savor
each tidbit I give him, which he does with obvious but not
exaggerated pleasure. I've fed him only three morsels before he
takes my wrist and stops it before I can bring the fourth to
his lips, looking up into my eyes.
"It would please me, Padawan, if you would join me," he says in
a low and gravelly voice that is almost like a live wire
against my groin.
"As you wish, My Master," I reply a little breathlessly, my own
cock twitching in thoughtless, selfish--and thoroughly
conditioned--response.
At his behest, I fill another plate, pour myself a glass of
wine and turn back to the bed. Of course, I anticipated this
eventuality, and there is plenty for both of us. He's moved
over, giving me room to sit beside him. I kneel, instead,
sitting back on my heels and facing him, my knee against his. I
touch his glass with mine so they chime gently. "My Master."
He accepts the toast graciously, drinks a little, then touches
my glass with his, producing another soft chime. "My Padawan,"
he says, returning the compliment, and brings the rim to his
lips, watching me over it. I take a sip, feeling unaccountably
flushed. The wine, probably. I have, as my master has often
pointed out, a very low tolerance for alcohol. Then he pulls me
to him with a hand on the back of my neck and kisses me, tongue
sneaking between my lips, and I know it has nothing to do with
the wine. Even that can't mask the taste of him, better than
any banquet, any bouquet.
We smile a little slyly at each other when the kiss ends,
neither of us sure who is doing the seducing. He licks his lips
and watches me, waiting.
I feed him another tidbit, murmuring "try this, Master," and
holding it out between my fingers. He leans forward and opens
his mouth, then curls his tongue around the morsel, sweeping it
from my finger and thumb with a delicate movement that barely
touches the pads of my fingers, but makes me shiver
nonetheless.
Then he takes a bit from his own plate and holds it out to me
on the tip of one finger. When I look up at him, his mouth is
quirked into a sly but almost invisible smile. I take the bait,
but slowly, first closing my lips around just the tip of his
finger and drawing back enough to sweep the morsel into my
mouth, then sliding slowly down to second knuckle and sucking a
little as I draw back. I watch his eyes dilate as I do, until
they are black pools ringed with blue. The food, good as it is,
is much improved for the taste of his skin with it.
He's breathing a little faster now, and so am I. We both take a
sip of wine and turn our attention back to our plates for the
moment.
"You've never tried these, have you?" he says conversationally,
holding up a long, grey prickly-shelled, unappetizing leg of
something. I do know what they are but prefer not to think
about them in their natural state. He prizes them as a great
delicacy, at least their legs, hence their presence on the
menu.
I shudder. "No, My Master, and I'm not likely to, given a
choice."
"Oh?" he says, teasing. "Jedi should always be open to new
learning experiences, Obi-Wan. Some cultures," he goes on,
cracking it in half against the fulcrum of his strong, blunt
thumbs, "insist you dig out the meat with awkward little forks
or picks. I prefer eating them this way." He puts one
cracked-open end between his lips and his cheeks hollow a
little as he sucks, moving the shell in and out just the
slightest bit. After a moment, he cracks the leg a little
farther down and repeats the process, and once again until the
broken shells are hollow. When he's done, I find I'm watching
him with my mouth open a little, breath short again.
"Certain you won't try it?" he asks.
"Perhaps later, when you've had all you want," I tell him,
swallowing heavily. "They are for you, after all."
The almost-invisible smile is a little less invisible now. He
knows he's gotten to me. "As you wish, Padawan."
We torment each other more with the rest of the menu, carefully
chosen for just such a purpose, sucking and licking bits from
one another's fingers, literally eating out of each other's
hands, tipping shellfish between each other's lips or passing
them from mouth to mouth. The hollow of his throat makes the
perfect cup for a bit of roe, its saltiness mingling with his
when I lick it out, then continue nibbling and licking down his
chest until he stops me with a barely contained groan. We're
careful of his new robe, careful of my uniform, and therefore
tortuously delicate and controlled with one another, as we
should be, as Jedi should be. Nothing is spilled or dropped,
nothing goes to waste. I've made up finger bowls, but he
abandons decorum and prefers we lick each others fingers clean.
Who am I to argue with my master? By the time we're finished,
most of the wine is gone and we're both painfully hard,
breathing deep and slow in the effort to stay that way.
"Now what, Padawan?" he asks quietly, waiting to see what I
have planned.
"Whatever My Master wishes," I tell him, bowing as I kneel on
the bed.
He is the picture of seduction, lying lazily against the
cushions, one leg drawn up, the other crooked under it so the
silk gives me tantalizing glimpses of his inner thighs and his
balls in the shadow between them. His cock is already peeping
out between the edges, crown glistening. Who would guess he
could be so casually wanton? Sometimes he shocks even me, after
all this time, as he does now.
"I want you to watch me, Padawan, and when you're wound up and
squirming, I want to fuck you in that uniform."
My heart starts to pound. "Yes, My Master," I gasp, swallowing
heavily, scandalized and aroused at the same time. It always
astonishes me to hear my dignified and serene master say such
things.
He starts to touch himself then, pulling the blue silk aside so
I can see his fingers circling and pinching his nipple as the
other hand closes around his cock, thumb and forefinger pushing
back the foreskin and spreading the bead of fluid from the slit
around the head. From there, his hand drops to his balls,
fondling and rolling them and I can feel my own tightening up
against my body, wanting to feel his hands doing the same
things to me. If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel what he
does through our bond. It's almost enough to make me come, but
I know he doesn't want that, not yet, so I let it go. The
fingertips of his other hand are sliding up and down his chest
and belly, slowly, almost hypnotically, dipping lower and
lower, finally loosening the robe's tie to reveal more glorious
skin. They glide lower then, to close around his cock, and he
thrusts into his fist with a moan, closing his eyes, throwing
his head back, lost to pleasure.
The head of his cock is almost purple, the shaft a heated red,
all of it so large. I can never get over how large he is,
especially his cock. I want to take him into my mouth and feel
that heat, taste him, suck him, swallow him whole. My hands
close into fists in frustration. His hand moves up and down his
shaft briskly, his hips thrusting until pre-cum is running from
the slit in a stream. Again, he swirls his thumb around the
head, spreads the fluid over his shaft, thrusts and thrusts
until I know he's almost ready to come and I'm shivering and
whining, wanting to touch him, be touched by him, have him in
me. His other hand dips behind his balls, and he shudders for a
moment but doesn't come.
When he opens his eyes again, there's a fierceness in them I
seldom see and it makes my heart pound harder. Looking at me,
he's off the bed in one lithe movement, the silk billowing out
behind him, then swirling around his ankles as he comes to a
stop. Just seeing that nearly makes me come. He pulls me off
the bed and stands behind me, yanking me against him, and I can
feel his shaft throbbing against my ass through the fabric of
my uniform. Shaking hands unfasten the pants, push them roughly
down to the tops of my boots and bend me over the side of the
bed. I cross my arms and lean my head on them, lightheaded with
need and desire.
I feel his warm and familiar hand slide down my spine over the
cloth of my tunic, then onto the bare skin below my waist and
into the crevice of my ass, where his fingers encounter the
plug. He's startled for a moment, then laughs.
"By the Hundred Little Gods, Obi-Wan, you were a whore in your
last life. I've always suspected it." I grin, though he can't
see me. He's right. I was. I could be again, but only for him.
He strokes his fingers hard over the plug, making it shift
inside me and bump my prostate, then moves it in and out,
spreading the lubricant. I hear myself whine again until he
pulls it out and leans over me, fingers gliding over my
stretched muscles, one slipping just inside, giving me
something to clamp down on. It's not enough. Not enough.
"Are you ready for me, Padawan?" he growls, hot finger twisting
in me, sliding in a little deeper, tantalizing.
"Yes! Gods, yes!" I hiss, wanting him, wanting to please him,
wanting him to fuck me.
He plunges two fingers inside the loosened slickness I've
prepared for him, then three, widening me and stroking my
prostate until I think my head will explode. But I want his
cock inside me.
"Now! Now, My Master! Now! Please!"
His hands spread me, blunt thumbs digging inside, stretching me
more, and then the head of his cock presses against me, hot and
slick with pre-cum. However much he's stretched me, it's not
enough, never enough, and he has to push against me, hard,
holding my hips as he slides inside me slowly, solid and huge.
His cock fills me until my whole pelvis feels turgid and hot,
me legs weak. I clamp down hard around him in reflex, making us
both groan, and then as my muscles loosen again, he begins to
move inside me in the slickness and I think I might die. I've
been waiting for this all day, for tens, since I asked Master
Windu and Master Koon the last time we were on Coruscant to
keep him occupied today. Everything that came before this was
for him, though I took my own pleasure in it. This is for me,
and he knows it, though he'll take his own pleasure in it as
well. That's how it works, give and take, take and give,
sharing the pleasure.
"How do you want it, Padawan?" he growls, rotating his hips,
stroking my cock slowly.
"Hard and fast, Master! Please!" I gasp. I feel his cock draw
almost out of me and slam back inside, raking my prostate. He
holds me down by the back of my neck at first, then holds my
hips, as though I were going anywhere with my pants around my
knees. I know he likes this as much as I do, likes seeing me in
this uniform, hard and ready and half undressed, as much as I
like seeing him with that blue silk tight around his ass or
billowing out behind his beautiful body. Hard and fast is how
it comes and my voice drops into guttural, graveled, incoherent
sounds as he pounds into me. We flail against each other and
stars begin to shoot across my vision like fireworks. My balls
are up tight against me, my cock pulsing, swelling, and then
his hand is there, fingers beneath me, stopping it even as I
feel him come, seed shooting deep inside.
I feel the rumble of his groan through my back more than I hear
it and he lies panting against me for a moment before slipping
the plug back inside. I'm too surprised to even protest, my
erection half lost, but he anticipates me, as he always does,
kissing the back of my neck beneath the high collar.
"I wanted to make it last for you, Padawan, for both of us," he
murmurs, stroking over the plug. I feel myself hardening again
at the thought of my master's cum held inside me and at the
movement flicking against my prostate. "Pull up your pants but
leave them open." Hands shaking, I do as he asks, watching him
make himself comfortable on the bed again. He lies against the
cushions, body framed in blue, thick braid coming loose in wild
wisps, eyes heavy-lidded and sated. He spreads his legs and
draws them up a little, his heels on the mattress. "Here," he
says. "Kneel here. I want to watch you."
I do as he asks, kneeling and taking my cock in my hand through
the fly of my pants. I'm fully clothed but for that, kneeling
in my black boots on the white sheets. I wish for a moment that
I were facing the mirror, so I could watch myself while
watching him watch me, master and padawan.
"Closer," he says and I move up until my knees are against his
ass, the backs of his thighs up against mine. "Stroke
yourself."
I'm hard again, cock aching, arching up against my tunic,
streaking it a little with pre-cum. My hand closes around it,
stroking slowly, watching him. His gaze travels up and down my
body as mine roves over his. He lies against the pillows like
carnality embodied, limbs wantonly loose, eyes hooded and
dreamy, sweat gleaming on his skin. The blue silk glows around
him, and where it lies against his skin makes the hidden flesh
more tantalizing. Gods he's beautiful.
"Touch your balls," he says, and I move them out through the
fabric, squeezing and rolling them, still stroking.
"Faster," he murmurs and I see his cock stir again. "I want you
to come on me, Padawan."
The idea makes me quiver and stroke harder and faster until I'm
thrusting into my own fist, squeezing my balls, moaning,
panting, crying out--coming in pearly ropes on his chest and
stomach, still careful not to soil the silk. Gasping, I sit
back on my heels for a moment as my cock subsides, then lean
forward and work my cum into his skin, rub my face and mouth
and braid against him until it's all I can smell, all I can
taste when I lick my lips. He leans up and kisses me, licks my
lips, my cheek. "Lick it off, Padawan," he whispers into my
ear, tongue following the whorls, teeth nipping my earlobe.
"Yes, My Master," and I'm grateful for it. I love the taste of
my cum on his skin and there's a great deal of both to taste.
I've made sure to rub it into his nipples, so I linger a long
time there, and root it out of his navel with the tip of my
tongue. By the time I'm done, he's nearly writhing beneath me
and hard again.
"As you were, Padawan, against the bed," he gasps, getting up
and pulling me with him. We return to the position we started
in with my pants around my knees again, with fewer
preliminaries. The plug comes out, and he's driving in, nine
slow, shallow strokes, running his hands over my tight tunic,
fumbling with fastenings then tearing it when they will not
open quickly enough, sliding his hands inside over my burning
skin; then eight shallow and one deep and hard and my cock
starts to fill and his hand closes around me again, giving me a
fist to thrust into; then seven shallow and two hard and deep
and so it goes until I'm aching and grinding against him,
damning his control, wanting him hard and fast until there's
just one shallow stroke and he pounds into me again--oh
gods!--pushing me over the edge until I come, shuddering and
crying out, bucking into his hand and back against him and I
feel him come inside me again, letting out a deep sigh.
After a moment, he pulls away, sliding the plug back inside to
hold in his cum, rubbing mine onto his own cock, wasting
nothing. We have ruined my tunic, but his robe is still
pristine, not even sweat-stained. With obvious and gratifying
regret, he takes it off before we ruin it too and drapes it
over the bench at the foot of the bed, then pulls me onto the
bed, beside him, still clothed. We lie down together, sticky
and hot, still breathing heavily, hands touching one another.
The room smells of wine and semen and candles and what little
food there is left. In short, like a den of debauchery. My
master seems completely unperturbed by that fact as he slides
his hand down inside my pants and once again fingers the plug.
I squirm, moaning against his throat, drawing a leg up to throw
over his hip.
"And who taught you about this, Padawan?" he queries with
amusement, moving it inside me, making my breath go short
again.
"I have had many teachers, but only one master," I tell him,
keeping as serious an expression on my face as I can under the
circumstances.
"Impudent padawan," he complains and kisses me. "This was a
wonderful gift, Obi-Wan," he says gently, when it ends,
stroking my skin beneath the open tunic. "You've given me much
over the years: your persistence, your hard work, your loyalty,
your devotion to duty, your patience, your forgiveness, your
love--but nothing so enjoyable or handsome. Thank you."
I'm tempted to make a quip concerning rocks, but refrain. There
will be a more appropriate time for it in a few days. Instead,
I ask him, "What makes you think that's all of it?"
His eyes glimmer with an almost feral light. "Have I told you,
Obi-Wan, what an excellent padawan you are?"
"'As the master, so the pa--'" The rest of my words are
swallowed in another kiss, and I must make good on my threat.
So during the following hours, I let him nibble and lick the
last of the roe from my nipples, my navel, the tip of my
cock--hardship that it is--and trick me into sucking the
surprisingly sweet flesh out of one of those *legs*. As a
reward, he nearly sucks the flesh out of me, swallowing my cum
as though it were one of tonight's delicacies. I tell him
that's a very effective way to motivate me to try new things.
We finish the wine, sharing the last mouthful in a kiss. The
taste combination of wine and cum and Qui-Gon is intriguing.
Then we ruin the rest of my blacks. He nestles up behind me and
slides his big hands down the front of my tight pants and
begins to stroke my cock and fondle my balls, rubbing his thick
cock against the fabric over my ass. I come first, spurting a
dark, wet stain against the crotch as he milks it from me; he
comes a moment later, anointing the back. Fortunately, even our
dress blacks must be replaced now and then, and no one will
question another requisition. We make the most of that fact
since he seems to like the way it fits around my ass, the way
the fabric holds the smell of our cum. Afterwards, he rubs his
face and beard against the damp cloth, back and front, and
slowly peels it off me, licking damp skin as he goes. The
boots, at least, have survived.
By the time the candles burn out or are put out, we don't need
to see. We can find each other by touch and taste and smell.
"You really hadn't forgotten, had you?" I murmur into his ear
at some point, half asleep and finally naked. I smell my cum
and his in his beard, and tired as I am, it makes my heart
pound a little faster. "No, Padawan," he replies, stroking my
braid. "But it was not my place to bring attention to it. That
was your choice. I honor you on your birthday and the day you
chose to trust me with your heart. You honored me and our bond
tonight with your gifts." "I knew that," I mumble, feeling
stupid. "Of course you did, Padawan," he agrees, kissing my
eyelids gently. We make love again and he comes inside me twice
more. I fall asleep, finally, still filled with his cum,
holding part of him inside me, feeling connected to him
physically the way we are through our bond.
If I could keep him with me, always--but that is a selfish
thought, unworthy of any Jedi. We go where we are told, when we
are told, and with whom or alone. We live to serve, however
that might be. For now, I serve my master as well as the Order.
Someday, perhaps, we will also serve each other.
In the morning, he comes to the table straight from the
fresher, wrapped in blue silk that matches his eyes. "Good
morning, My Padawan," he says.
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