L'Histoire d'Obi (The Story of Obi) Chapter 2 - Initiations (continued)
by Lilith Sedai
He saw to it that Obi-Wan received a good dinner that night, and plenty of liquids, so that he would be strong for the kata and would not waver. He was not quite sure what Obi-Wan intended to attempt. However, Qui-Gon was sure that whatever it was, it would be unforgettable.
He could hardly keep his mind off the upcoming performance, and when the time arrived, he was tense with anticipation. Obi-Wan rose lissomely and stepped forward into the lit circle, turning to face his Master, gazing into the flickering amber light of the torches the Riadans always set about in special stands during periods of dancing and entertainment, preferring the smoky golden illumination to the sterile white glow of artificial shipboard lighting. The torchlight shone beautifully on his skin, highlighting his muscular body with exquisite detail. "For your pleasure, Masters, I shall perform the saber kata designated the Grand Dance of the Art of War." He saluted, swinging his practice sword in a slow arc over his head, stirring the long gold ribbons that hung fluttering over the cleared area.
Qui-Gon slid his hands up his sleeves to hide the fists that formed, the white knuckles almost cracking. It was not a kata designed to be performed solo, but Obi-Wan could do a version of it alone. The Riadans would not recognize the difference, but he would. He would know that in Obi-Wan's mind and heart, he too danced in the circle of light. He would know that it was the imaginary specter of his body within millimeters of the bare flesh of his padawan. He would know that Obi-Wan was one with him, even in his absence. He would know that Obi-Wan performed this dance for his pleasure, and his alone, no matter who might be present to see.
Corm watched Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon tightly from where he sat behind Ahar on the raised and cushioned royal dais, flanked by the sullen Qal and seven serving slaves. Corm smiled, noting that the King was once again enjoying the sweet smoke of his ever-present pipe. The King gestured vaguely with a fat, beringed hand, and Corm nodded with exaggerated reverence, signaling for the musicians to play. He would now discover the extent of the boy's ability, and from it, take a true measure of the men Valorum had sent as ambassadors to Ria.
Within less than twenty-four hours, he had been able to determine that Obi-Wan Kenobi was not a seasoned slave, though in many ways he seemed a natural one. Corm suspected that he was a fighter in his own right, a pupil of Qui-Gon's, one bound to his teacher with love and desire that had apparently been but sparsely returned to him, the disparity creating in him the natural desperate submission of a love slave in need.
Corm smirked slightly. Obi-Wan Kenobi, he suspected, was a dangerous warrior. As such, he would bend his back willingly before one man only: his love-Master, his teacher. Before any other, he would probably die rather than submit. It was conjecture, based merely on the look in the boy's eyes and on his carriage, but Corm trusted his instincts. They had always given him useful knowledge, and Corm filed his guesses away for future reference along with the unexpected occurrence of the afternoon, when he had tested Obi-Wan. It had happened swiftly, but Corm was also a warrior, with razor-honed reflexes, and he knew his hands had been peeled from the boy and pushed away even before Jinn touched him, catching him and flinging him with strength unnatural for even such a large man.
He had heard rumors of such during their short time on Coruscant, where he had dropped prompting words into sharp ears, seeking information about curiosities that might be valuable to slave traders and breeders on Ria. While the Supreme Chancellor had busied himself with Ahar, Corm had made several contacts of his own, secretly obtaining valuable information about the Republic. Among the most fascinating things he had learned of was the existence of the Jedi and their special powers. He had instantly realized the immense potential for profit that could be his if he succeeded in breeding those powers into his slave stock.
The Republic's ambassadors to Ria had not originally been formally identified as Jedi, but the invisible forces that had seized him when he had administered the slaver's caress to Obi-Wan had convinced him that one or both of the men must have Jedi powers. Consequently, he had not been surprised when Qui-Gon revealed that he was a Jedi Knight. Turning his eyes on Obi-Wan, Corm smiled narrowly. If the young slave were truly a competent, highly trained fighter, it was entirely possible that he was also well-trained in the Jedi mind arts. If that were so, purchasing or otherwise obtaining him from Jinn could prove convenient and potentially very profitable for Corm.
Yes, these two were dangerous. Very much so, far more than they appeared, even if not as much as the rumors had indicated they might be. One of his more highly placed contacts had warned him of the Republic's tendency toward squeamishness regarding the matter of slavery, and had spoken contemptuously of the sanctimonious morals of the Jedi. Jinn might discover his plans and take exception to them. He would have to be very careful -- it could be difficult, as well as inconvenient, to eliminate the Ambassador and his slave.
Even as he wondered at the extent of Obi-Wan's abilities and the level of expertise implied by the title "Jedi Knight," the dance began to answer him.
Obi-Wan lifted the crude wooden blade in salute, his eyes seeming to penetrate the darkness and find Qui-Gon's, and then he drew the blade into the starting position, poised above his head, and his lashes closed. A long moment passed, the changes in Obi-Wan's body extremely subtle, as he sank into the fantasy of partnership.
Qui-Gon realized he was holding his breath, soaking in the sight of his padawan, arms and legs flexed, generous sex bare but unashamed, body taut and poised. Then, so quickly that only Qui-Gon knew it was coming, Obi-Wan flashed the wooden blade downward and pivoted, circling, dodging a blow that Qui-Gon knew he would have aimed, slicing down against an unreal parry, spinning past a body that was almost tangibly present in the tension of Obi-Wan's reactions to it. Obi-Wan almost seemed to use the absent body for momentum, interacting with it, flinging himself against it, attacking without ever piercing it, moving so rapidly and smoothly that his motions were dreamlike.
Qui-Gon was rapt. He had never seen Obi-Wan perform this dance from a distance; always he had been an active participant. Though no one else could, Qui-Gon could see a Force aura take shape, Obi-Wan's thoughts and emotions faintly embodying the absent sparring partner, and as they turned and clashed, ever more swiftly, he could make out its features. It was, of course, himself.
As the minutes passed and the kata speeded subtly and constantly, sweat began to pour from Obi-Wan, gleaming on his flanks and his chest, his body glowing from exertion, his eyes closed and face perfectly peaceful. Perspiration flew from his body in a fine spray that caught the light as his body snapped from position to position in fluid motion.
Qui-Gon felt his spirit lightening in his body, moving outward to join Obi-Wan's dance, to take his place at Obi-Wan's side, embodying the Force aura Obi-Wan spun with the strength of his concentration on the kata, but he resisted the pressure, keeping his eyes open to drink in the sight ... and slowly the kata ended, but the dance did not. It changed, subtly, as partnership became submission to the opponent's greater will. Obi-Wan held his sword before his body low, in both fists, seeming constrained to the mode of attack, even as he responded to the unfettered attacks of the unseen sparring partner.
The effect was almost unbearably sexual, and now rather than holding his own, Obi-Wan seemed battered by his ghostly opponent, toyed with, hardly worth notice. The attacks upon him spurned him with competent rejection, leaving him vulnerable and beautiful, helpless to resist, and yet required to do so. Qui-Gon realized he had bitten his lip at the symbolism, staring down with anguish, his heart torn by the change. He wondered if Obi-Wan realized that Qui-Gon could see who and what his padawan battled in his heart. Perhaps not; it was unlike Obi-Wan to reveal so much of himself inadvertently.
The battle continued, the futility of Obi-Wan's attempts to defend himself growing greater until he sank with exhaustion. And then it happened -- the blade was caught by his unseen opponent, twisted out of his hands, clattering as it was thrown aside. But Obi-Wan was not yet defeated. He leaped to his feet and the dance began anew, his body arcing and leaping as he sinuously dodged the imagined attacks that wove their invisible net around him. But he was doomed to fail. The ribbons that dangled about him, once so artfully avoided, now seemed his opponents as well, the gauzy fetters clinging to the sweat that covered him, tangling about an arm or ankle as he sidestepped, whipping about his thigh during a pivot. He faltered, relentlessly pursued and caught, his struggles valiantly continuing until he was snared and enmeshed in a graceful tangle of shining golden bonds. At last he fell to his knees, hands bound behind him, bending back to bare his throat, helpless before his insubstantial attacker. Defeated, unable to resist, he abandoned himself to the threat of the blade in ecstatic, erotic surrender.
Qui-Gon sat absolutely still as the men and women surrounding him, including the slaves, beat their open palms against the left side of their chests in enthusiastic applause. Even as Obi-Wan knelt alone in the ring, his dance finished, his chest heaving for oxygen, there was the sense of the other presence about him. Then his eyes opened, and the spell shattered, the ribbons sliding away from his body and puddling on the floor as he rose.
Qui-Gon realized he too was drenched with sweat. Rising, he strode downward, the crowd parting before him, and swept Obi-Wan into the wing of his cloak. Without a word, Qui-Gon led him away.
The Jedi Master's head was swirling as he made his way toward the door. His only thought was of Obi-Wan, of gently receiving and soothing the fragile emotions the dance had expressed to him, of responding to the yearning story of failing self-confidence and rejected love that Obi-Wan had just told him so eloquently and wordlessly.
Running headlong into Corm was a rude awakening from the erotic dream Obi-Wan had woven.
"Most enjoyable!" The High Priest beamed at him, and Qui-Gon nearly growled at the shorter man, clutching Obi-Wan to him beneath his cloak. Obi-Wan's arms circled his body; he was attached to Qui-Gon like a limpet, his feet barely touching the ground, his face buried in his Master's broad chest.
"A fine dancer, and well-trained. He dances his need well before us." Corm leered, and Qui-Gon's patience snapped.
"If you will pardon me, Your Eminence." A Force-enhanced shoulder moved Corm out of his path.
"Your need is also on you, I see," Corm's smile turned nasty. "Then perhaps at last you will not decline to avail yourself of the pleasures of this willing warrior you pretend is your slave."
That stopped Qui-Gon in his tracks, and his eyes rose, gleaming dangerously under the cowl of his hood.
"Come now, Jedi." Again, Corm was not deterred by the Jedi's most dangerous look. "The boy is clearly yours, yes, but it is also clear that he is a skilled fighter and that you are reluctant to treat him as a full slave. It is a trick on your Senate's behalf, sending the two of you in this guise. You are both warriors, spies who plan to seek the secrets of our government for the Republic's benefit."
"I have told you before that our customs are different from yours," Qui-Gon kept his voice smooth. "We are here only to determine if it is desirable for the Republic to extend trade courtesies to your people, not to seek political secrets." He swallowed, feeling dryness in his throat. "That I have not ... used ... Obi-Wan for my pleasure does not mean that I am a spy, or that he is."
"It is true," Qal intervened. "Ambassador Jinn told us yesterday that Obi-Wan is a new slave. Allowances should be made." The Prince stood nearby, arms folded.
"A new slave does not worship his Master so." Corm refused to be placated, lowering his brows and shooting Qal a threatening look. "Why is their relationship incomplete?"
Qui-Gon felt his throat threaten to close as he explained himself to Corm. "I have ... kept Obi-Wan myself for six years, since before he was thirteen, and he has been in service to my order since he was little more than a babe in arms. I trained him in the kata you saw tonight. He ...." Qui-Gon swallowed harshly. "He is my student, my ward, my responsibility .. my possession. I have not yet chosen to make him my lover."
"Lover." Corm seemed to taste the word. "An odd term for a Master to use."
"And yet, I am his Master." Qui-Gon met Corm's eyes directly. "In all things, I have always been so."
Obi-Wan murmured acknowledgment and seemed to try to burrow into Qui-Gon.
"But though you master his will, you have not taken him. You are not fully the master of his body." The Riadan Prince grudgingly agreed with Corm.
"Exactly." Corm was insistent, and the tone of his voice reminded Qui-Gon strangely of a Jedi Master attempting to instruct a recalcitrant pupil who failed to see the obvious. Qui-Gon was reminded suddenly of the religious aspects of sexual slavery on Ria, and began to wonder if the men he faced thought they were making a conversion.
"You have seen the papers," Qui-Gon rumbled. "I own his body."
"But you do not make him your slave." Corm shook his head flatly. "*He* does, by his own choosing. And choice ... well, that is not a slave's option."
Qal merely looked embarrassed and apologetic, shrugging at Qui-Gon. The Jedi nearly growled with frustration. It was true and it was obvious to men who had made a religion of owning and training slaves that Obi-Wan was not one, not in the fullest sense of the word.
Corm was shaking his head decisively. "If you do not prove that you are the boy's Master, then I cannot accept that anything you have told us is truth presented in good faith. You will both be imprisoned and tried as spies." Corm approached, contemptuously twitching Qui-Gon's cloak aside to bare Obi-Wan. "Look. He is not even branded!" He let the flap of cloth fall again.
"Slaves are not branded in the Republic --"
"They are in the sovereignty of Ria," Corm enunciated clearly, his tone warning. "There are irons aboard, Qui-Gon Jinn, and those who know how to use them."
Corm reached into his belt, producing an odd object that made Qui-Gon's eyes narrow. "There are whips aboard, as well. Your slave has not been pleasing, Jedi. He has stared contempt into the eyes of a free man without permission, mocking me with his gaze even after you reprimanded him."
"This is unnecessary!" Qal exploded suddenly. "He is a new slave, from a different culture! He does not yet fully understand the rules of our --"
Corm ignored him bluntly. "It is my right to request satisfaction, and your duty as his owner to give it." Corm shook out the object, a short handle with five wide leather blades splayed at its tip. "If this is in truth your slave, Jinn, you will be able to punish him."
"You go too far!" Qal hissed. "His slave is Ambassador Jinn's own to discipline! The boy has been danced hard, and given us all much pleasure. He has satisfied the gods!"
"Shall we consult your father?" Corm's words held a vitriol that forced Qal back a step. "He has not satisfied me. Your father will recognize my rights!"
Qal ducked his head, defeat and anguish plain on his face, but Qui-Gon had no leisure to feel gratitude for his attempt at intervention. Corm tossed the whip and Qui-Gon caught it reflexively. His pleasure in Obi-Wan's kata had turned to lead in his belly, and he gazed down at the top of his padawan's head, forced to resign himself to the inevitable.
Gently Qui-Gon unwrapped his cloak from Obi-Wan, meeting his apprentice's now tear-bright eyes. Obi-Wan turned his head, reaching for Qui-Gon's hand, and took the handle of the leather-strapped whip between his teeth, as he had seen a displeasing slave girl do the previous evening, offering it to his Master.
Qui-Gon reached out with a trembling hand, his palm curving over Obi-Wan's jaw and left cheek, caressing him. In spite of strict rules against influencing the minds of powerful dignitaries in the course of diplomacy, he could use the Force to overwhelm Corm's mind, make him call off the whipping. But Corm was not the entire problem. Qui-Gon felt many hostile eyes on him. They were eyes that would record and report back to their government and spread the word that the Jedi were spies, tricksters, not to be trusted.Even if he were willing to risk it, not even the legendary Qui-Gon Jinn could hope to influence so many minds at once. He was loath to do this thing, but it was better than branding ....
Corm triumphantly led them across the room to a frame with manacles attached to loose straps that dangled at four points on its edge. Even the King roused himself, hoisting his bulk from the floor and shuffling lazily through the discarded piles of ribbon as he crossed to observe.
Qal shouldered a guard away and gently worked to fasten Obi-Wan into the rack. Qui-Gon watched closely as the Prince tightened the leather manacles until they bit into Obi-Wan's skin. "They must be secure so that they will not shift and tear his flesh," Qal muttered, sensing the Jedi's frown. He finished, hesitantly caressing Obi-Wan's forearm before stepping back, his eyes deeply sad. The young Prince then turned away, gliding silently from the room.
Obi-Wan swung in the frame, offering no resistance, holding the whip between his teeth, his too-calm eyes locked on Qui-Gon, ignoring Ahar and Corm entirely.
Corm reached for the whip, and Qui-Gon elbowed him aside. "Obi-Wan is mine," he reminded him in a rasping voice. "You will not touch him."
Corm nodded his approval as Qui-Gon reached and Obi-Wan dropped the whip into his palm obediently. The Jedi Master paused, gathering himself, reaching out with the Force. He could feel the curve of Obi-Wan's back, the vulnerable ribs, the dip of his spine above his hips, the pulse and surge of the young man's life.
Letting the blades of the whip fall free, he swung it for a moment, as though testing its heft. He met Obi-Wan's eyes, a moment of intense silence passing between them, and stepped around the rack. Qui-Gon sank into the Force, gathered it, and extended it in a thin net over Obi-Wan's back, even as he drew back the whip and it whistled through the air, the thongs curling around Obi-Wan's ribs with a smart crack.
The hiss was his only warning, and tongues of flame licked his ribs lightly. Obi-Wan winced and jerked, swinging in the straps, but he remained silent. If it was to be no worse, he could bear it easily in spite of the shame of his helplessness and his horror at being struck by his beloved Master.
Corm scoffed. "Such a blow would not even punish a woman, Jinn. Strike him, or it will be done for you."
Qui-Gon felt his jaw lock, and directed the anger into the second blow.
The hiss again, like a nest of vipers. Angry ones, this time. Obi-Wan could sense Qui-Gon's bitter emotion, and it startled him, disrupting his center just as the blow landed, the sensation like fine wires slicing at his flesh. He grunted desperately, angry pink welts beginning to rise where Qui-Gon had struck him.
The Jedi Master felt sweat beading on his brow, struggled for calm. This must be done. There was no way around it. He felt his jaw cramp with grim tension. His arm flew back again.
*SNAP.* The rhythm had varied, catching Obi-Wan off-guard, a blaze of pain renewed in the stripes of the previous blow and added in those of this one. His throat spasmed. Sweat began to pour off him in rivers, as he struggled futilely for control. He could hear laughter ... directed at him? How could Qui-Gon do this --
*CRACK.* This time he had no defenses prepared to meet the blow, and a strangled cry escaped him. His back was aflame, and his face reddened with mortified shame as he heard the echo of his own gasp and realized how it must have hurt his Master to hear him cry out, even though he knew that sounds of pain would be necessary to satisfy Corm of the beating's adequacy.
Again, the hiss and slap of leather flaying skin. This time he bit his lip, tasting blood but muffling the cry that threatened to emerge, swelling in his chest. How long would it go on? How many more blows could he take before he shamed himself, shamed his Master by breaking into screams, by begging him to stop ....
"*Master!*" His cry was too late to forestall the next lash, keenly flaying pain from him. He could not keep silent, and he cast about for something to shout that would satisfy Corm's cruelty. "I will not fail you again!" Obi-Wan trembled, cringing from the sudden wave of anguish his call provoked in Qui-Gon, simultaneously knowing that it would seem to Corm that he feared more blows. Corm was laughing, and Obi-Wan bowed his head, trying to escape from the mockery in the man's eyes, from the remainder of the beating, but there was nowhere to go.
A seventh crack, and Qui-Gon's pain echoing his own, enhancing it ... it was too much! His own pain he could bear, but his Master's ... tears began to stream freely down Obi-Wan's face; he sobbed, horribly ashamed.
"I love you, Master," Obi-Wan gasped through his tears, lifting his face, struggling to see Qui-Gon, to reassure him, but his bonds prevented it.
Three further blows fell, delivered with desperate, savage speed, tiger-claws raking him left-right-left, the power of the impacts nearly wringing his hands in the wristlets. Obi-Wan wept, sagging, beaten.
Qui-Gon finally let the whip drop, exhausted and shaking. That had to satisfy Corm; he could not strike his apprentice again. He reached forward, feeling the heat rise from Obi-Wan's back as he loosened the straps and pulled them from the bloodless grooves in Obi-Wan's flesh. He caught his sagging padawan, holding him close. Obi-Wan was sobbing quietly, not completely in pretense, and he collapsed into Qui-Gon's arms, kissing his neck and chest desperately. Qui-Gon's anguish nearly suffocated him, and he gathered in his padawan carefully, trying not to touch the abused, flaming flesh of back and ribs.
Corm nodded sharply, grudgingly satisfied. "Let irons be heated," he directed his men.
"No." Qui-Gon stepped forward, pitching his words for Corm's ears only. He put all of the Force at his command behind the word, his fingers moving, hand rising toward the Riadan as though in casual protest. "Republic slaves are not branded."
"Republic slaves are not branded," Corm agreed fuzzily. "Put away the irons." Qui-Gon gently gathered Obi-Wan against him and led him away toward their quarters.
He had buffered the blows with the Force as much as he dared, only permitting enough contact that the angry weals would rise, showing that the whip had actually touched Obi-Wan. Though his apprentice had endured worse single injuries in training sessions with stinging charges from remotes and practice sabers, those were not so prolonged, personal, or humiliating as this beating had been. Obi-Wan was a fine actor, he decided, letting just enough of his genuine anguish show that Qui-Gon had not had to thin the buffer to make his padawan's reaction seem more real to Corm. Qui-Gon tried to reassure himself that Obi-Wan had been carefully trained and was capable of taking far worse in utter silence, should he choose, dispersing his pain into the Force.
A worse, and more practical, problem was Qui-Gon's conviction that now more than ever, they must not let down the facade they maintained, even for an instant. If they did, Obi-Wan might find himself lying under a branding iron. They already teetered perilously close, and for only the slightest of infractions.
He led Obi-Wan back to their assigned quarters, whispering encouragement into his ear along the way. "A little further, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered, drawing him close as they made their way down the narrow corridors, as much to shield him from the lustful eyes of the guards as to comfort him.
For appearance's sake, he pretended a carnal aspect, clutching his padawan to him roughly. It took little effort on his part to make the pretense, but Obi-Wan grunted in pain at the contact, flinching, and Qui-Gon realized that his apprentice was badly demoralized. Some amount of healing, both physical and psychological, would have to be done before they could continue with their mission.
Once in their quarters, Qui-Gon set to healing Obi-Wan's back, bathing his insulted flesh with Force-energy and encouraging a quick recovery with much-eased pain.
The burning heat of the beating dissipated almost completely, leaving only the angry swollen welts on the very surface of his skin, but Obi-Wan continued to keep his face averted from his Master, shamed. *I told him. I said it.* The thought was worse than the beating, worse than a thousand beatings. He could not lift his face, was mortified by the admission and the way that it had been wrung from him, and he was terrified to meet Qui-Gon's eyes lest he find only rejection and pity waiting there.
Qui-Gon tried to turn him over, to cajole the young man to look at him. "Padawan," he began.
And then the thrice-damned door chimed.
Qui-Gon surged to his feet and slapped the button to open the door. "What now, Force curse you?" he thundered, but was utterly silenced by the sight of a cringing slave girl, trembling at his feet, her forehead touching the floor only an inch from the tips of his boots, her hair flowing over the deck, her shaking arms lifting up a sealed note on a golden salver.
Qui-Gon felt like an inexcusable brute for perhaps the tenth time that day, and miserably wondered what had become of his control. He took the note and broke Ahar's royal seal, opening it to find an invitation from the King. A summons, really, informing Qui-Gon that his presence, and that of his "pretty slave," was still expected for the remainder of the festivities. It fairly reeked of Corm's influence.
Qui-Gon looked from the trembling girl at his feet to the trembling apprentice in his bed. Was this ordeal never going to end?
"Obi-Wan," he sighed, "We must go. We are summoned."
His padawan laboriously drew himself to his feet, making a visible effort to compose himself. Qui-Gon moved to the young man's side, laying his hand on Obi-Wan's forehead, using the Force to perform a calming on the boy. After a long pause, Obi-Wan's eyes rose to his at last, reddened but calmer, resigned to endure.
Together, they allowed the girl to lead them to the feasting chamber.
Setting aside his empty goblet of wine and surveying the crumbs that remained of his and Obi-Wan's meal, Qui-Gon sighed. The moment he had dreaded (and guiltily yearned for) had arrived. He had to prove his claim that Obi-Wan was his, in all ways, or be accused again by Corm, and then they would be imprisoned and perhaps slain. At the very least Obi-Wan would be branded. Of that he was certain. He vowed never to let it happen.
Qui-Gon glanced about himself uncomfortably, conscious that Obi-Wan was waiting with silent awareness for the next step. A slave girl took the remains of their dinner, replacing it with a tray containing a selection of the Riadans' preferred ... religious aids ... for use in the upcoming service to the gods. Around the room, Masters and slaves were finishing their meals and beginning to writhe in embarrassing and fascinating contortions as they worshipped their chosen god, their passions honed by the sensual beauty of Obi-Wan's kata. Cries of pleasure were already beginning. Qui-Gon knew that to refuse to participate would be fatal.
But he could not bring himself to reach for Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon was not sure what restrained him in the face of necessity. He knew Obi-Wan had acquiesced to this role, and adapted all too well to playing it, becoming mired in its demands, beginning to lose his identity, absorbing the degradation that was thrust upon him, clinging to Qui-Gon as his single anchor. He knew his padawan trusted him implicitly, and knew that trust had always been well-founded.
Until now.
The thought of touching his newly-beaten apprentice under these circumstances sickened him even as it aroused him almost beyond bearing. And the knowledge that Obi-Wan's trust was misplaced ... that pain burned Qui-Gon like nothing he had ever imagined, searing his gut like a saber-thrust through the body. Obi-Wan believed that Qui-Gon was his Master, his protector. Not a predator. He believed that Qui-Gon's touch would come of necessity and protectiveness, and not of desire and raw animal intent.
And it was not true. Qui-Gon shuddered as Obi-Wan's hand fell gently on his knee.
"Master," Obi-Wan prompted him, very softly.
This had to be done, the ruse must be carried through. His padawan's acknowledgment of the fact lent him the strength he required.
"Obi-Wan." My padawan. My love. My .... He could not permit himself to think it.
Qui-Gon reached for Obi-Wan, gathering him close, running his hand deliberately down the front of his apprentice's body and feeling the slow, responsive shiver that greeted the intimate touch. Obi-Wan's arms slid about his Master, and Qui-Gon gently lifted him and pressed him backward onto the luxuriant wooden frame piled lavishly with cushions and animal furs that had been provided to double as a sitting couch and a pleasure bed. He was uncomfortably conscious that Obi-Wan would still feel a slight sting of pain from his whipped back. "Trust in me," he breathed in Obi-Wan's ear, the lie almost burning his tongue. And in truth it was unnecessary except for self-punishment; Obi-Wan was as pliant as silk in his arms. There was not a hint of resistance in him.
Qui-Gon was glad that there was little necessity to remove clothing. Obi-Wan was purely bare beneath him, and he had no need to remove a stitch of his own attire. He had merely to pretend convincingly that he had done so.
He drew the furs about them, rolling Obi-Wan on top of him and then back onto his back so that they were trapped in a sleeve of warm softness. Corm sat nearby, idly fondling a girl, the sweat-stained whip tapping idly at his thigh, but Qui-Gon ignored him, concentrating on Obi-Wan instead. His padawan's bright blue eyes were serene, gazing up into Qui-Gon's, and his lips were soft, parted, ready to be kissed, so irresistible that Qui-Gon tasted them lightly in spite of himself.
Sweet, warm satin, so subtly moist, so generously yielding. Faint warm breath on his cheek. The slight fullness of his padawan's lower lip as Qui-Gon pressed a little deeper, the soft sensation of the young, willing mouth parting beneath his own ....
Obi-Wan moaned, the barest whisper of a plea as his Master pulled away, and Qui-Gon felt his hands knotting in Obi-Wan's short soft hair as he lunged helplessly back into that welcoming, vulnerable mouth, ravaging it. He bit blindly at the mobile lips crushing beneath his, swirling his tongue over the flesh his teeth grasped, then felt their teeth click together as he drove his tongue into Obi-Wan's mouth, licking the tender flesh of his palate. He could taste Obi-Wan's sweat, sense his shock at the unexpected hunger in Qui-Gon's ravishing kiss. Qui-Gon hardened instantly, helplessly, teasing Obi-Wan's tongue with his own, feeling his padawan recover suddenly and flicker his own tongue lightly against Qui-Gon's, inviting him even deeper.
Force, but he could almost believe Obi-Wan truly wanted this, even as much as Qui-Gon did! And with that, he realized that Obi-Wan was hard too, squirming against him, uncomfortable from the pressure of Qui-Gon's weight trapping his erection against his Master's pelvic ridge. Qui-Gon shifted without thinking, and Obi-Wan sighed wordless thanks into his mouth.
Obi-Wan's hands slid over Qui-Gon's back, then dipped, moving to his Master's single tunic. Listening to the remaining shreds of his rationality, Qui-Gon reached to stop his padawan's questing hands, forcing himself to break the devouring sweetness of the kiss. "No," he whispered raggedly, but it was too late. Obi-Wan's palms were beneath his shirt, wandering hesitantly over his chest and around his ribs to his shoulders. Qui-Gon shut his eyes, battling for control. He forced himself to reach and gather his padawan's arms, dragging those seeking hands from his body, pushing the young man's arms above his head. He could not trust himself to maintain his control if Obi-Wan ... cooperated.
Qui-Gon reached for a set of wrist cuffs that lay in the tray and quickly clipped his padawan's wrists together, fastening them around the heavy iron ring bolted to the sturdy wooden frame of the couch, immobilizing the young man's arms over his head. He could not look into his padawan's questioning eyes. Obi-Wan again did not resist him, limbs moving with smooth sweetness, dwarfed in Qui-Gon's huge palms.
"Master," Obi-Wan murmured, his voice near breaking from an emotion Qui-Gon could not quite identify.
"Hush, my slave." Qui-Gon tasted the words at last, having avoided them until this moment, when they slipped out and caught him unawares, the breath in his throat catching at their conclusion.
Obi-Wan did so, sighing very quietly as Qui-Gon pressed against him and turned him to his belly. His Master's weight settled on his back, driving him firmly down into the furs.
Qui-Gon knew he was helpless to prevent Obi-Wan from feeling the thick hardness of his erection as the charade entered its final stage, as though the lad hadn't felt it already, but he also knew the depths of Obi-Wan's trust. Whether or not his padawan felt love and desire for his Master, Obi-Wan would accept this, as he had been doing already, without believing it a threat to him.
The young Jedi tried to breathe under Qui-Gon's weight, oxygen deprivation already making him light-headed. He very nearly cursed his Master's decision to bind him and turn him to his belly. He had hoped this might give him the excuse, the pretext he had needed to touch Qui-Gon, to kiss him, to discover the hard, scarred body of the Jedi who had owned him, he now understood, since he was barely out of his childhood. His dismay at his Master's restraint was cruelly sharp. Qui-Gon had not removed even a stitch of clothing; there was only rough fabric against his skin.
But disappointment aside, there was a pretense to be maintained, and though Qui-Gon's lips and teeth did not find the skin of his throat as his Master moved his face against Obi-Wan, the young Jedi squirmed and cried out as though they had, imagining the rough liquid texture of Qui-Gon's tongue and the pleasurable sting of his teeth. "Master, Master," Obi-Wan moaned, giving himself over to the fantasy, to the reality, bucking beneath Qui-Gon's weight. "Take me!" The words were tense, hissed between gritted teeth, and he drove his hips upward against his Master's body.
Qui-Gon's fist clenched in the furs and he drew a sharp breath, trying to ignore Obi-Wan's apparent enthusiasm. Even if his padawan actually believed he wanted this, now was neither the time nor place. The sooner this fakery was done, the better. He could delay the inevitable no longer.
Qui-Gon lifted himself on his elbows and slid upward, resettling with his weight only partly against Obi-Wan. He moved his hand to the closure of his trousers and fumbled there, so that it might seem to Corm that he opened them. He settled the white heat of his stiffness against Obi-Wan's hips, the swelling of his erection nestling into the cleft naturally even though the trousers restrained Qui-Gon and prevented contact. Obi-Wan uttered a shuddering sigh that ended in a pleading whimper. Where was the boundary between charade and reality? Qui-Gon could no longer trust himself to judge it.
He lifted himself slightly and thrust further upward, mimicking entry, and Obi-Wan cried out sharply, thrashing, struggling against the slave-ring, as his penis was ground into the thick furs beneath them.
Qui-Gon thrust again, sliding along the cleft, the rough cloth of his trousers chafing Obi-Wan's skin, but he couldn't help it, it was almost unbearable to him as well, binding his erection painfully and yet arousing him further.
Qui-Gon resisted the temptation to run his palms down Obi-Wan's sweating sides, resisted the need to kiss and bite the nape of his padawan's neck, and thrust again, grinding his hardness into Obi-Wan's softness. Again, and again, as Obi-Wan shrieked and wept beneath him, his passionate cries tearing through Qui-Gon's resistance, driving Qui-Gon toward madness.
"Yes, Master!" Obi-Wan arched his head back, desperately trying to reach Qui-Gon's lips, and Qui-Gon wondered dimly how his padawan had managed to move so far, pinioned under his considerable weight, but it was natural, also. For was it not perfectly right and unsurprising that Qui-Gon had rolled to one side so that his hand could fumble again at the fastening of his trousers, this time freeing himself? Yes. So right that his penis sprang free and nestled against Obi-Wan's flesh. So good that his padawan squirmed to open beneath him. So irresistible, the sensation of himself nudging between the smooth tight cheeks, pressing firmly to enter, excluded only barely by the resistant virgin tightness of the young man's body.
And Obi-Wan was crushed beneath him again now, whimpering and crying, pleading, as the thrust began in earnest .... Qui-Gon froze, horrified, eyes fixed on the padawan braid trailing at the side of Obi-Wan's neck, recalling to him duty, responsibility, and the Jedi Code.
Obi-Wan's hips bucked, pressing backward as he struggled, the impatient motion threatening to engulf the erection that pressed against him, but Qui-Gon was already moving with Jedi reflexes, angling upward. His penis slid into the cleft instead of impaling his padawan, the mingling of disappointment and relief so unbearable that Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan threw their heads back and voiced their loss in separate cries of relief and despair, one hoarse and rough, the other desperately pleading. A grotesque parody of shared orgasm, it would have to be enough.
Qui-Gon rolled off Obi-Wan, shaking, not caring that the furs slipped away and left him bare to Corm's sight. He gasped for air. Obi-Wan lay trembling and sobbing at his side, unable to move away from the slave ring, his face averted.
"Get back to the room," Qui-Gon rasped.
"Master!" Obi-Wan lifted his face, his eyes filling with shining moisture.
"Do as I say!" Qui-Gon snatched Obi-Wan's wrists, freeing him roughly. Obi-Wan pushed himself to his knees, his mouth working, searching for words.
"Go!" Qui-Gon barked furiously, shaking with rage, and Obi-Wan scampered away.
Corm chuckled and clapped, pleased and convinced by the passionate pretense. "Bravo, bravo, my fine Jedi Knights!" Qui-Gon ignored him. As Obi-Wan stumbled from the room, covering his mouth with his hand, Qui-Gon reached out blindly, his hands closing on the waist of a passing slave girl.
She was warm and willing, clinging to Qui-Gon instantly, mouth sultry as it sought his, and he flung her to her back, plunging into her welcoming body without further preamble.
Qui-Gon's eyes closed.
The girl he had chosen was slim, her curves understated, and Qui-Gon realized it was not hard to imagine that the yielding body he penetrated belonged to a young man -- to Obi-Wan. There were, of course, certain differences, but Qui-Gon's mind nearly smoked from the vivid memory of Obi-Wan's touch, of the shape of Obi-Wan's body beneath him. Qui-Gon succumbed to the fantasy, hoping it would exorcise the desire that possessed him.
The memory of Obi-Wan beneath him was one that would never fade. Now, only minutes after reality, its shattered edges seemed sharp as diamonds. Qui-Gon could recall Obi-Wan's cries almost vividly enough to hear them echoing in his ears, and the woman's were lost beneath the memory. Obi-Wan, his skin hot and soft, yielding to Qui-Gon's hands, to his lips. A groan wrenched itself from Qui-Gon's throat. The woman arched into him as Obi-Wan had almost done during that last moment, and Qui-Gon growled, thrusts coming harder and faster. He could very nearly taste Obi-Wan's sweat on his lips instead of the girl's slave-rouge. Qui-Gon paused, sweat gathering in his long hair, plastering it against his throat.
He ignored the squirming slave girl beneath him as the forbidden fantasies rushed in like the tide. Oh, he was damned ... damned for wanting this, damned for indulging it, even in pretense! Giving up the last of his scruples, he permitted himself to picture how a willing Obi-Wan would arch into his thrusts, his fingers grasping, digging into Qui-Gon's arms, his hair teased into sweat-soaked spikes ... sweat trickling over the collar clasped tight around his throat, the collar with Qui-Gon's name inscribed upon it.
He remembered how the tight entrance to Obi-Wan's youthful body had felt at the tip of his pressing penis, how vulnerable Obi-Wan had been to him, how he had struggled, writhing as though he would push himself onto Qui-Gon's erection inadvertently in his distress. A hissing gasp escaped him. Now the Obi-Wan beneath him was not the willing creature of his previous fantasy. It was the panicked young man who had lain under him this very night, not certain if he was squirming to escape or to be taken. But this time, Qui-Gon did not control himself. Instead of angling away, he slid his palms under the imaginary Obi-Wan's hipbones and drove deep, sheathing his full length in a single thrust.
The slave girl, now on her belly beneath him, tossed her head with a wild gasp, but Qui-Gon did not hear her. Instead, he heard the voice of his padawan, crying love to him: Master. Master.
Yes. He was Obi-Wan's Master, in this and in all things, and Obi-Wan knew it in no uncertain terms, accepting Qui-Gon's driving thrusts with the same small, helpless, passionate noises Qui-Gon had infrequently heard him make in the night, in his sleep, when they were quartered together.
His fist closed in long, perfumed hair, but longed to close about a slender braid ... the woman was arching, gasping, murmuring heated endearments, clenching him with her skilled body ... but it was all Obi-Wan in his mind, his padawan now overcoming the shock, turning his face over his shoulder to growl soft, half-pained encouragement to Qui-Gon, shoving his hips back to take all of Qui-Gon's aching length, whispering tensely for his Master to thrust harder, faster ... the spark leaping from his eyes as Qui-Gon did so .. the hissing escape of his breath ....
Again, the girl screamed her passion, her submission, but this time, Qui-Gon heard her. Her, a girl, an anonymous slave. Not his Obi-Wan, screaming orgasm and love to him. He felt himself wilt in mid-thrust.
Qui-Gon was dazed, disappointed. In his passion he had entirely forgotten her. Now he released her, feeling emptiness close about him. He needed Obi-Wan's body in his arms. He needed sleep and a great quantity of wine to make him forget. Qui-Gon freed the girl and pushed her away from his aching flesh. She rose indolently, her eyes shining at him in spite of the brutal treatment he had given her.
"Fetch wine." Qui-Gon hurried her with a slap on her rump. He would drink, to calm himself and to permit Obi-Wan time to do the same. Then he would return to his room.
He did not notice Qal, who had returned to the feasting chamber after the beating was over and now sat trembling in a corner staring at the Jedi Master, his face white and wretched. The Prince rose on shaking legs and hurried away.
Obi-Wan wandered down the corridor, dazedly staring at nothing. The patter of his bare feet echoed hollowly in the empty space, emphasizing his solitude. He was not quite sure what had just happened, but he knew it was bad. Possibly worse than he and his Master could recover from.
It all depended on how Qui-Gon had interpreted what had happened, and what had caused his sudden anger. Obi-Wan could be certain on neither count, and he struggled against the temptation to jump to conclusions, instead framing a general apology, one that would be just ambiguous enough to cover everything without admitting anything. "I'm sorry, Master. This mission was unexpected, and the stress is getting to me. I'll ...." I'll what? Never do it again? Do it immediately? Forget this ever happened? All were possible responses, and he could not choose from them, not without knowing his Master's mind.
The rough guard who stood before the access hatch to the sleeping quarters eyed him, and Obi-Wan mustered the Force. He'd had to use it before, to keep the man from violating him, though he hadn't told Qui-Gon. A small push was all that was needed to persuade the man that he wasn't in the mood, and another kept him from chaining Obi-Wan as he had done before.
Obi-Wan was in no mood to spend the night on the floor, trussed like a crate of supplies for the sake of their cover, waiting for a Master who might not come back to him before morning, if then. He'd seen the look in Qui-Gon's eyes, and though he had never seen it on his Master before, he knew what it meant. It meant that his Master had been within a hair's breadth of having him, and that his level of sexual frustration was such that petty matters of politeness, Jedi ethics, or even simple squeamishness would not stand between him and release.
Only something exceptional could stand in the path of such desire.
Apparently, Obi-Wan thought wryly, he was rather exceptional. He wasn't sure, though, whether to be flattered or insulted.
He moved toward the 'fresher cubicle for a shower, but paused with the door only half-open. He was covered with Qui-Gon's scent and his sweat, the feeling of his Master's flesh still tingled on his body. He could not bear to wash it from himself. Not now, not when he was tormented by the dread that Qui-Gon would never touch him so again.
Obi-Wan lay down in the bed. It too smelled of Qui-Gon. Giving in to childish impulse, he took the pillow his Master had used. Running his palm across it, he found three long hairs, one silver and two brown. He used the Force to braid them, delicately, and wound them about his finger. They wrapped it thrice, forming a near-invisible circlet. He tied it and sank down into the hollow his Master's head had left. Slow tracks of liquid slid from beneath his closed lashes. He was a mess, physically and emotionally. One of those things he had the power to remedy.
Obi-Wan smiled bitterly, his face still wet. If Qui-Gon's behavior of the previous night was any indication, he would have plenty of time.
Qui-Gon approached their quarters with slowing steps, but he could not prevent himself from arriving. After a moment, he forced himself to activate the door, stepping into the darkened room. He paused to get his bearings.
A soft noise greeted him, reverberated through him, and it wrung a small groan from his chest that dissipated inches from his lips.
Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon stepped forward in the small antechamber very slowly, hugging the shadows, until his field of vision moved around the corner, and his gaze fell on the bed. There was just enough light streaming in from the half-open door of the 'fresher for him to see clearly.
Obi-Wan lay spread-eagled, the sheets covering half his left leg and barely draped over the ankle of his right. The lines of his body were taut, his back slightly arched, his small tight muscles highlighted with glow and shadow. His left arm was flung out next to his head, his hand a tight fist on the pillow. His right hand was closed around his half-erect penis, stroking slowly.
Qui-Gon felt his mouth go dry, and he sagged against the wall helplessly as his knees threatened to give way beneath him. Of all the things he had failed to anticipate .... Obi-Wan, eyes shut, never noticed the faint flicker of his Master's shadowed presence.
He drew his fist up in a smooth, steady stroke that tightly harnessed all of the violent potential for energy in that taut, vital body, his thumb squeezing the vertical ridge that extended for the length of his penis, milking it gently. He stirred, his body rustling against the sheets as he snugged his hips down into the mattress, swallowing. The faint clicking of his throat reverberated through Qui-Gon, as did the slow intake of breath and the rise of Obi-Wan's slender but well-muscled chest.
The dim light from the door shifted on Obi-Wan's skin as the young man moved, briefly throwing his ribs into relief, pooling his face in shadow. His hand slid to the root of his erection and pulled upward again. Qui-Gon's eyes riveted to the hand's slow process, to the ridge of loose skin that pushed up in its path and then slipped through the clasp of Obi-Wan's fingers. Obi-Wan rotated his palm slightly at the top of the journey, smoothing the soft sheath of flesh around the crown, his breath escaping him in a deep, weary sigh.
Qui-Gon realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it with a sharp snap. Obi-Wan's left hand awoke and strayed downward, curling beneath his testicles and lifting them gently, fingering them slowly, his right hand sliding to the base of his penis again until the blade of his palm lay against the soft sac of skin, and then he pulled upward again, more sharply.
As he did, he arched upward as though his spine were boneless, inhaling and holding the breath, his hand repeating its swift transit. He was fully erect now, and the light caught faintly, shining on a drop of fluid at the tip. Qui-Gon could almost taste it, swaying forward involuntarily before he regained control and forced himself to remain hidden.
Obi-Wan shifted again, turning slightly to his side and drawing one knee up, his bare foot whispering along the pale sheets. Bracing on his left arm, he curled his body, his hand beginning to slide more rapidly and more loosely. Up and down it plunged, drawing Qui-Gon's tortured eyes along with it, the repetitive circuit hypnotic. The tableau lasted for perhaps a dozen strokes before Obi-Wan shifted once more, sliding into the half of the bed furthest from the wall. He lay back, his breathing swift and harsh, his hand abandoning his penis, which sagged to the side, neglected, as Obi-Wan simply spread himself on the bed and breathed.
Qui-Gon felt his brow crinkle slightly, wondering what his student was doing. Obi-Wan reached to his side and his palm slid over a pillow, almost reverently.
He gathered it up to himself gently, as though it were a living thing, bringing it close to his face. The slow, measured rise and fall of his chest spoke of deep breathing, though relaxation techniques were hardly to be expected during such a moment. Obi-Wan clasped the pillow to his chest, his arms sliding about it, snuggling it to him like a person's body, and his knees came together, leaning away from the light, as he rocked there, slowly, gently, for a long moment, enjoying the imagined embrace.
Obi-Wan's lips brushed gently against the pillow, and his arm stole down, the palm wrapping about his erection again. Face buried in the pillow, Obi-Wan began to stroke in earnest. The pillow muffled his groans, and Qui-Gon fought against his impatience to hear him, stepping forward without realizing it.
Qui-Gon felt his own penis stirring urgently, insistent for the completion of the act he'd failed to finish twice already this evening, and his palm strayed over his robes, clasping the swelling ridge that lay beneath. His head fell to his chest, his beard scrubbing faintly against his tunic, but his eyes stayed riveted on his slave, his padawan, peering over his aquiline nose, piercing beneath the low-pulled brows. His left arm curled around his body, much as Obi-Wan's curled about the pillow, the imaginary lover, the stand-in for whatever body he was imagining next to his own.
Qui-Gon's hand burrowed beneath his robe to free the straining flesh. Obi-Wan's climax would come soon, and Qui-Gon did not want to be left behind, or worse, caught. His hand closed around his own body, the skin exquisitely sensitive from thwarted desire. His penis was painfully erect, begging for attention. It would not take much. Obi-Wan would never have to know his weakness.
Obi-Wan's hips began to jerk, and he fell onto his back again, writhing, but still he curled around the stiffened organ that was the temporary center of his being, head and hips lifting from the surface of the bed, small tortured gasps muffled by the pillow he still pressed to his face.
Obi-Wan's gasps were not so quiet anymore, and the muscle in his arm was clearly ready to cramp; his grip must have been painful but he did not slow, using his hips instead, pushing upward ... faster ... harder .... Qui-Gon felt his testicles tighten in sympathy, his breath coming in hoarse groans that were lost in the helpless, half-strangled noises that Obi-Wan was making. He was just a heartbeat behind Obi-Wan, and the moment was coming fast.
And then the pillow rolled from Obi-Wan's face, forgotten in the heat of the moment, and his padawan's moaned words became audible to him. "Master. Ohhh ...." Obi-Wan's voice cracked with tension. He inhaled with a sharp hiss, shifting, and unbelievably the strokes whipped faster, harder. "Your slave ... Qui-Gon ...." Obi-Wan's head jerked to the side, his expression agonized. "Please!" The word was a whimper, escaping through clenched teeth.
Qui-Gon's fists closed, knuckles cracking as he struggled with the impact of the unexpected revelation. Obi-Wan wanted him. Wanted to be taken by him. Wanted Qui-Gon to master him as both man and slave.
A red madness of desire mingled with despairing anger at his padawan for bringing him to this pass flooded through Qui-Gon on the heels of understanding, eliminating the tattered shreds of his restraint and sweeping away the ruins of his control.
"Stop!" his voice grated harshly as he stepped forward. Obi-Wan shied violently, his lids snapping open, startled eyes deep and terrified, his lower lip beginning to tremble with excuses, denials. "If you are determined to be a slave, then remember that your Master has not given you permission to touch your body!" The sharp words forestalled any attempt at justification, and Obi-Wan swallowed hard, giving a single shamed nod, submitting to the reprimand humbly and without any attempt at defense. He bowed his head, the motion hiding his face in shadow. There was much of both the slave and the padawan in the simple gesture.
The perfect defeated acquiescence as Obi-Wan lowered his shame-filled gaze tore something open deep inside the Jedi Master, and he could resist no longer. His hands tore at his belt, his tunic, and his breath came ragged as he flung them away. Obi-Wan lifted only his lashes and watched, still as a startled deer, only his eyes moving, taking in the sight of Qui-Gon's uncharacteristic frenzy. His Master, magnificent muscular body gleaming in the bar of light from the adjoining room, stalked forward. His knee fell on the rumpled sheets. Obi-Wan felt himself go slack, felt his hand trickle from his lap to the mattress, his muscles tingling with sudden weakness, his feet sliding along the sheets as his knees sagged, even though there was no weight upon them.
Qui-Gon's hands closed on his shoulders, effortlessly dragging him up to meet a savage kiss. Obi-Wan's eyes closed, and he let his mouth melt under Qui-Gon's demand, opening eagerly to his Master's probing tongue. He could barely endure the sensation of Qui-Gon's leg moving over his body, his hips coming to rest on Obi-Wan's thighs, the crisp hair between his legs rough against Obi-Wan's still-unsatisfied penis.
"Raise your arms above your head." Obi-Wan complied, grasping the headboard, the fading rational part of himself faintly aware that Qui-Gon's childhood accent had emerged, as it occasionally did in moments of stress. The words, though harsh, were laced with its music, and Obi-Wan sighed with happiness, doing as he was told. "Don't move them until I say you may," Qui-Gon warned.
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan breathed, and Qui-Gon devoured the words from his mouth with another fierce, bruising kiss, teeth sharp on the fullness of Obi-Wan's lower lip, hands rough as they claimed Obi-Wan's body, ranging over him, exploring every bit of flesh, finding hidden sweetness. Obi-Wan moaned as Qui-Gon's mouth left his and found his throat, kissing about the collar.
"Part your legs," Qui-Gon commanded, and Obi-Wan obeyed immediately. Qui-Gon moved to kneel between them, savoring the sight of a single drop of fluid gleaming at the tip of the heavy erection that sagged toward Obi-Wan's tight belly. He tested the weight of Obi-Wan's sensitive testicles in his palm, stroked the soft, yielding skin over the taut flesh of his slightly curved shaft, traced a pulsing vein with his fingertip, forcing himself to wait, whetting his desire. It was far too late for second thoughts.
At last, unable to delay longer, he bent forward, giving in to the overwhelming temptation to taste his student's lust. Obi-Wan's eyes followed with disbelief as Qui-Gon bent close and touched his tongue to the salty droplet that had gathered. Qui-Gon could hear Obi-Wan's nails scratching at the headboard as his padawan struggled to be still. He slowly slid his tongue inside the tight sheath of skin, swirling it around the hot, damp hardness that lay within. Obi-Wan jerked, a hissing gasp escaping his lips.
Qui-Gon reached beneath his padawan's hips, drawing them up in a thrust as he slid Obi-Wan deep into his throat, listening to his apprentice's ecstatic whimpers. He wanted more, but his padawan was too close, and he did not want this to end yet. Not this way, not this time.
Obi-Wan suppressed a flicker of fear as Qui-Gon withdrew his hot, clinging mouth, terrified that his Master would stop himself again before it was finished, but he soon found his fears were unjustified. Huge palms caught his thighs, pressing them out and up until his knees nearly rested on his shoulders. Obi-Wan shivered with frightened anticipation, knowing what came next, still grasping the headboard as he had been told, aching with the need to be ravished. He clamped his teeth on his lower lip, stifling his cry as Qui-Gon started to press the head of his thick hardness into him without the aid of oil, his erection still partly slickened from his abortive coupling with the anonymous slave girl.
"Let me hear you!" Qui-Gon bit his calf fiercely, and Obi-Wan yelped from the bite, then uttered a strangled wail as Qui-Gon finished pushing inside him, physical pain mingling with the psychological ecstasy that comes from the end of unbearable tension.
"You are mine, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's voice rasped, his eyes glittering down at his padawan with a mixture of pain, lust, and love. Obi-Wan thrashed helplessly, impaled. "My padawan, my slave ...." Qui-Gon pulled out and thrust again, hard, this time at an angle that sent an unexpected flare of pleasure lancing through Obi-Wan from inside himself.
"Yes!" Obi-Wan almost wept, trying and failing to twine his ankles behind Qui-Gon's neck. The angle was wrong for that, but Obi-Wan needed to draw him close, to urge the thrusts to resume, the friction of Qui-Gon's hard body against his erection maddening him. He rocked desperately, fastened to the headboard with bonds made only of Qui-Gon's will, and all the stronger for it.
Qui-Gon growled, his long hair falling about Obi-Wan's face and neck, curtaining them in a small enclosure together. He shoved again, harder and deeper.
Obi-Wan ignored the pain, focusing on Qui-Gon's hard wet mouth on his, opening his lips to accept his Master's tongue, greeting it eagerly with his own.
"Let go." Qui-Gon's hands released his thighs, and Obi-Wan pried his aching fingers from the headboard obediently as Qui-Gon rose to a kneeling position without disengaging from him, holding Obi-Wan's waist in the crook of a powerful arm, lifting Obi-Wan and letting him fall rhythmically, using his padawan's own weight to drive the building pleasure between them. Obi-Wan arched back, his braid trailing against the sheets behind his shoulder, his hands clutching Qui-Gon's flexed biceps, feeling the hard muscles roll beneath his palms as Qui-Gon labored to move him and yet restrain himself simultaneously, struggling to prolong the moment of Obi-Wan's willing slave-rape. But he could sense that Obi-Wan was also on the edge, the friction of the movement pushing him to succumb to climax.
"Wait!" Qui-Gon growled. "Not until I say!"
Obi-Wan nodded, belly tensing, accepting another thrust, struggling to dissipate the tension coiling deep in his loins. Then all tension was suddenly gone as Qui-Gon withdrew fully from his body. Obi-Wan uttered a disappointed moan and would have spoken, but his protest turned into a yelp of pain as Qui-Gon gripped his upper arm fiercely and with one lightning-swift motion neatly flipped him over onto his belly. Qui-Gon knelt between his padawan's legs, lifting Obi-Wan's hips and dragging the young man up and back to rest on his thighs. Gritting his teeth against the resistance of Obi-Wan's body, he spread him without finesse or care and entered him. His hands caught beneath Obi-Wan's hips briefly before moving to his shoulders, bowing the proud back as he began to thrust in earnest, spreading his knees so that there would be no friction on Obi-Wan's penis.
Obi-Wan gasped, a sound of real pain falling from his lips, but caught the headboard again, helping to add resistance to his Master's quick motions, enabling Qui-Gon to free a hand to skim over his arched back and forward, to his straining belly, and finally down to the nest of curls and the straining erection that waited for its Master's permission to expend its passion and expire.
Qui-Gon's huge hand enclosed him like the warm, tight sheath of a woman might, and Obi-Wan jerked, desperate to obey by waiting, clinging by his fingernails to control as Qui-Gon stroked him once, twice, and again, in time with the jerking of his hips, sagging forward over his padawan's back until the weight of his body began to press Obi-Wan into the mattress. "Now," Qui-Gon breathed in his ear, and Obi-Wan came, his shout of relief echoed by his Master's deep-throated roar as they succumbed to climax together. Qui-Gon's full weight fell on Obi-Wan's back, his lips nuzzling Obi-Wan's nape and his shoulders with a weary, sated hunger.
Still twined together, they quickly fell into the dark and dreamless oblivion of exhausted sleep.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7