DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
He reached up inside the loose clothing to the small woven undergarment she used to hold her breasts still, and shifted that away, pushing it upward and allowing his massive hands to slide down over her breasts, first smoothly in a single motion, then again separating the fingers and feeling her nipples between them, and with his fingertips, his thumbtips. Her lips parted, for though there was very little art in his touch, yet the hands were light and caressing, as if whatever he knew of gentleness in any form was fully present now, with her.
His hands retreated the way they'd come, back out the sleeves of her garment, but now his touch followed the full length of her arms. She picked up her hands and offered them to him, palm up, and they were swallowed as his massive hands slid under them, curled around them, as the sweep of his thumbs alone filled her palms. She laughed a little at the disparity, and his face, unmoving until now, softened slightly with an echo of her smile. She rose to her knees and began to explore the feel of him, her hands darting under the farmer's poncho to find a tightly-wrapped tunic. She could feel the huge chest hidden under the layers of cloth, the weathered skin of his neck as it sat over the muscles and ligaments of his throat and brought her fingers out of the top of the poncho to tease at the light snarl of his short beard, and the perfection of his soft, gathered hair. She slid her fingers back down and across his shoulders, lifting the poncho off over his head, setting it behind her on the sand.
He plucked at the join of her tunic, and she smiled again, picking at the leather belt where several pouches and his lightsaber were attached. Again with a tiny smile, he showed her how it caught, efficient and intricate, easy for a practiced hand but proof from accidental or casual removal. // Something Jedi,// she thought. She slid it forward off him and began to set it behind her, but he intervened, shifting her hand so that the weapon stayed in easy reach. //Another Jedi thing,// she thought, // mindful of the saber in every moment.//
And yet for all his certainty, all the stillness that suggested that he was at the calm center of his own universe all the time, she sensed hesitations and even confusions in him, even saw them passing across his eyes like thin clouds. What were his doubts, she wondered. There was no question he had come here with her for lovemaking; what other questions did he have? Was he asking himself why -- his why, or hers? Was he wondering if whether on this planet of mad gamblers, he had stumbled across her only form of wagering, or was he betting something of himself? And against what? Shmi was almost amused by the way he seemed suspended and thoughtful, even as his hands traveled back under her clothing, learning the surface of her body, and then retreated, as if he were going to write it into a pilot's terrain-finding program. Was this also Jedi, this distance? Nothing in the legends gave them such ambivalence. Their commitment was supposed to be akin to pure fire; their motion itself as absolute and subtle as a flame.
As if he'd read the thought from her mind, he suddenly moved fast and hard. One of the massive hands came forward, pushing her all the way back onto the sand, while the other slid along her legs, pushing up her skirt. His weight landed on her -- again, huge weight, heavy man and powerful in presence as in body. The big hand curled its fingers around the top of her undergarment and tugged it down hard, the fabric parting against the pull.
Shmi was breathing hard now, gasping both with having been knocked backwards and with a sudden increase of excitement. His rough face was hovering only slightly above her own; he was crouched on one folded arm that took a little of his weight off her while his hand cradled the whole side of her face, two fingers tangling into her hair, two fingers resting on the palm of her upflung hand, and the thumb sweeping into her mouth where she sucked on it, tongueing the sand off the rough skin, rubbing her teeth lightly again the horn of his fingernail. His breath was hot on the skin of her face and she saw her breath stirring the thin strands of his hair that were falling down past his ears.
They were not an easy fit, the small woman and the huge man; would not have been an easy fit even for practiced lovers, and neither of them was that. But raw need was powering him now. In rapid succession, Shmi felt his hand fumbling with his clothing, fumbling to release his sex, fumbling to find her with it, his fingers sliding briefly into her cleft, looking for wetness. Again she felt the hugeness of his hand as two fingers found and probed her swiftly, almost impatiently, and immediately he eased himself into her, big hips forcing her legs wider apart, reaching for access with no hint of begging permission.
And then again came the small caesura, the flicker of his quietness; it was not a pause, but a change; the steady entrance went on, the cock slipping further and further into her, but there was now room for her to be, to react, even to assert control if she wished. She gasped with the sheer pleasure of it: in this, he was huge again, thick and long, pressing in, slowly, mindful not to give pain and also savoring -- she could feel it in the tense attention of all his muscles. The rush to lie her down, to tear away her clothes, and now this carefulness as he plumbed. She closed her eyes while it lasted, concentrating her whole being on the sense of him inside her: it was by far the best thing she had felt for many, many years. It was not that he was a man, any man -- the pairing of intensity and care, violence and tact, these were the measure of an individual. He reached the full length of himself inside her and settled, his head lifting away slightly, his eyes closed and forehead rumpled in a frown of intense concentration.
She brought her free hand under his tunic onto his back -- already wet with sweat, she noticed; was it the heat of Tatooine or of this unexpected experience? Every muscle in his hard back was tensed, poised, conscious. Was this the Force, she wondered, this terrible awareness? Did it give him no rest? She ran her hand along the slick surface, then pressed down on it: More. Deeper.
With just that small touch, he bucked in her like a rutting animal, and she opened to him like a doe. His mouth came down on hers to kiss her at last, and it was an act of seizure, possession, occupation, his mouth huge over hers, his tongue probing everywhere. He had to angle his neck sharply to reach her face, just as he had to arch his back to meet her hips, and yet now they were making a perfect whole, a movement as perfect and powerful as the endless mutual circling of Tatooine's two suns. She felt herself melting into the sand under his onslaught, and yet also felt as if she were controlling this passage between them, leading him, showing him, even showing him how to take by her power of surrender. And then even that little fragment of mindfulness released itself and she was swept into the act, as if the two of them were just another wind on the desert beneath the stars.
She began to come before him, but her coming took him over the brink, and even as her muscles pulsed and contracted, she felt him explode into her, felt the spray of his seed against her womb. The hand that had been touching her hand now swept over and engulfed it, the big fingers wrapping hers into a fist and making his own fist over it, an almost crushing strength. His body stretched its full length over her, the V of his multi-layered tunic and his sweating neck above her eyes, and he brought his face down to the hand he had captured, loosened his grip, and crushed his open, gasping mouth against her small fingers.