Strawberry
"You're not going dressed like that."
When I packed up all my worldly goods to come out of the pulsing heart of
the Republic and descend into the backwater (terminally cushy) post of
Bodyguard to the Royal House of Eab Nanoorn, I had room to spare in my
carryall. The fact is, I was shipped out here to detox. I don't know how
the hell I'm ever going to tell you the truth, but there it is. Artur and
Sara did their level best to make my mind snap, to fray my nerve to the
breaking point, to crush whatever heart I might have been born with, and
didn't stop until they were absolutely certain that none of these things
would ever happen. I'm almost thirty years old. I had nothing but my field kit,
my uniforms, my lightslate and my saber. For the past ten years I've
either made do with what I had or done without.
Part of my training, of course, involved acquiring a sense of style. A Jedi
does not commit a fashion crime. A Jedi blends, complements himself and his
surroundings, and fails to offend the sensibilities of those he is trying to
sneak up upon and knife in the back. Therefore, I felt prepared for the
task of purchasing a proper wardrobe for myself as I journeyed from
Coruscant to Kais. The ship's log will attest to the fact that I did not go
slumming. I bought what I thought would properly outfit me for any social
function from high court to orgy. I charged it all to the Temple and smugly
crushed the pangs of guilt that attempted to spring up at me as I did so.
If they wanted me to prove my functionality as a 'normal' Jedi, they could
damn well foot the bill.
I shouldn't have been so conservative.
"We're going on a picnic, not military maneuvers," you say, frowning at my
uniform.
"There's nothing wrong with my uniform." And there isn't. It's clean,
neat, in good repair and suitable for any number of activities.
"It's beige and you're not going like that."
"Well, I'd like to know what you think you're going to do about it. I'm a
grown man who is perfectly capable of dressing himself. You've never gotten
me to change clothes yet and I'm not going to start now. I'll be waiting in
the Wraith."
And I will be, am, do wait for you. For all that I try to maintain this
hardassed exterior, this gruff, bossy, unreasonable attitude for the sake of
reminding you of why I am here, I often wish I could let you dress me up in
any way you chose. I'd do just about anything for you. But if there's one
thing I know for sure it's that a subject will start to ignore your
authority the very SECOND you let them overrule you on anything. I'd rather
you be pissed about my clothes than you be shot, so you can just huff the
day away. I'll make it up to you.
When you finally join me in the Wraith, you're on your comm link talking to
half a hundred people at once. A sure sign that you're not speaking to me.
Somehow, you make me feel how you're not talking to me by emphasizing the
fact, to wit: talking to everyone else while I'm sitting right there in
front of you. I school myself to patience and admire the way your pants cup
your genitals, the smooth shift of cloth against your thighs as you work the
speeder's pedals. I can tell you've noticed my scrutiny because your belly
blushes and your cock begins to harden. I don't even bother to glance at
your face. We've played this game often enough that I can picture your
flushed expression of smug, frustrated, self-satisfaction. You are such a
contradiction.
The fact is, if it weren't for my dragging you out of the clubs last night,
you probably wouldn't be capable of driving right now. I can't get used to
this culture. All anyone seems concerned about here is who they're going to
fuck next. I can't stand it, some nights, the way you hunt and get hunted,
seemingly by reflex. I'm beginning to resent the hours I spend trying to
scrape the feel of other people off me when all I want is your Language
written on my body. I can't tell you that. I think I'm a little scared of
what you would say. You're so giving, so complete in yourself, that I
wouldn't dare try to change you. If I were to kiss you and taste someone
else, well... I'd just have to kiss you until I had washed that other one
away. In all honesty, it scares me to want you this much.
Today, though. Today you're taking me off from everyone else. This might
be heaven, but I'm not completely sure. I could see you thinking this
morning, knowing that I had to go make my preliminary report to the Council.
I think it might have been the first time you noticed that I wasn't
wearing a 'property of Blaine' tag anywhere on my body. When I got back,
there was a picnic packed and you said I wasn't going like this. In my
uniform. Which I am, so there.
We travel for a very long time, inland to the rural areas and past farms of
various sizes. The land becomes more hilly as we go, and I can just see the
mountains in the distance. You pull off the main road, following some path
I can hardly make out in the underbrush. The Wraith slips between giant
conifers, their scent filling the air with a crisp, spicy coolness. A
sudden turn to the right and the land drops off below us, a sandy bluff
spilling down into a tiny cup of a valley. Sunlight streams down through
the break in the canopy; ribbons of yellow and gold paint the green carpet
with warm welcome. You park the Wraith and gesture for me to bring the
provisions and wander away, still talking on your comm link. I do as I am
bid.
You lead me out into the tiny green valley, pausing once to remove your
shoes then going on, stepping carefully between the plants as you go. I
follow suit until you stop and point to the place where you want the blanket
spread. When I have lunch laid out for you, you sign off your comm link and
pitch it some few paces away, amongst the plants. I make no comment, but
lie back on the blanket and offer you a plate.
You take it and begin filling it from the containers as if by memory. Your
eyes never leave off their study of me. Finally you say "You're right.
Beige does suit you, somehow."
"Thanks," I say.
"I'm not sure that's a compliment."
"Sure it is. It requires true style to make this look good. Took years of
training to get the knack," I reply, perfectly deadpan. You take a long
minute to decide I'm not serious.
You snort at that, an elegant rebuttal of my foolishness, but make no
arguments. After a long moment I sit up and get my own lunch. We eat in
silence and I take the time to enjoy the sunlight on my face and in your
hair, the smells of the forest and the far-off cries of the forest
creatures. You take your turn at work, packing up our dishes and cleaning
up our little mess. I lie down on the blanket, strangely discomforted, as
if something is missing. With a start I realize what the missing thing is.
"You didn't bring a dessert?"
"Didn't need to," you say, leaning over me and plunging your hand into the
thick greenery that surrounds us. You pull your hand back and show me the
small red berries there. "I brought us to it."
You pull a small sprig of green leaf off the top of one and press it to my
lips. It is sweet, almost all juice and no berry, soft enough to crush
against my teeth with a firm stroke of my tongue. I take one from your hand
and return the favor, enjoying the pleasure you get from this simple act.
Within minutes we're crawling around the valley, barefoot, sweet-mouthed and
laughing as we race to reach the best fruit so that we might feed the
choicest berries to each other. Our craving for dessert is sated long
before we stop picking. Now I'm eating from your hand to catch the flavor
of you, the warm scent of your wrist, the curve of your smile. Finally we
fall together in the middle of a patch where many berries are within easy
reach. You lie across my chest, one hand fiddling with my hair while the
other draws lazy circles across my thighs. "It's beautiful here," I say, by
way of thanks.
"I'm glad you like it. I found it a long time ago, when Kyle and I were
trying to run away... not really, you know. Just taking off, like kids do.
We made the secret service guys drive us out here and we all tramped around
for hours. Had a ball. Corgie even remembered to bring a proper lunch for
us. When me and Kyle finally wore ourselves out, they carried us back to
the skimmer and took us home. I remember it all with such clarity, how it
felt to be on my own, free, with my big brother looking out for me." You
sit up to stare down at me. "It's... to me this is a sacred place. I just
wanted to share it with you, so you'd know how special you are to me."
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come. Instead I pull you down and
kiss you, drinking deeply of your taste, the crisp, clean sweetness I always
find within you. I'm rewarded with a surprised little gasp, then full and
energetic reciprocation.
After a long moment I break the kiss, cupping your face in my hands. "Go
back to the blanket. Take your shirt off and wait for me."
"Just my shirt?" you playfully ask.
"Just your shirt," I confirm with a smile.
You drop another kiss on my mouth then get up to obey. That's one of the
many things I adore about you. You trust me not to scheme against you.
When I'm devising a surprise for you I never see the suspicion of duplicity
in your eyes. It warms my heart the way you jump in and go along for the
ride when you know I'm trying to please you.
It takes only a few minutes to gather my ammunition, and I join you on the
picnic blanket. You're lying on your back, head pillowed on your shirt and
your hands behind your head. I put the strawberries in a small pile just
out of your reach and stand over you, taking my time in removing my belt,
stole and tunics. You lie still, humming some tune in your throat and
watching with unabashed avarice. When I kneel beside you, you are
shamelessly hard for me. Is there any question why I want you for my own?
"Turn over," I say, nudging you with one knee. You comply, wordlessly
assenting to whatever I have planned. I straddle your ass and lean forward,
trailing kisses up one side of your ribcage, across your shoulders and down
the other side. My fingers stroke gently along your spine, soothing you as
you wriggle under my light caresses. When your skin is pink with arousal
and your writhing is under neither your control nor mine I move to kneel
beside you again. When you're this turned on you get so sensitive just
about anything makes you moan with pleasure. I do adore hearing you moan.
"Now, you're going to have to hold very still," I say, knowing full well how
difficult that will be for you. I lay a line of four berries up your spine,
marking the path I intend to follow. You feel their chill dampness and
shiver, hands already gripping the blanket under you. With my teeth I crush
the berry in the small of your back. Pale pink juice runs across your skin
and soft pulp slithers along your spine as I lap up the sweet fruit. Rough
licks gather the seeds and gentle flicks of lip and tongue cleanse you of
the berry nectar one cool drop at a time. Your hips roll and twist as I
make a few final passes of my mouth over your back, making sure I have
collected every morsel. When the only flavor I find there is your own, I
move up to crush the next berry. As the juice runs down towards your ribs
you moan, finally understanding what it is I have planned for you.
The sunlight is golden and warm on your skin and glitters wetly where I have
feasted. Through slitted eyes I watch you struggle to press up into my kiss
and yet not disturb my snack. Your hips rock as you rub urgently against
the blanket under you. As I lap up the juice from the second berry I slip
my hand under your belly and unfasten your trousers, then slide them off
your legs as smoothly as I can. Your cock is like a firestone in my palm.
Your breathing is nothing more than ragged groans as I stroke your shaft and
eat from your back, and you curve yourself up, trying to make contact with
me. I pull away, letting you touch nothing more than my hand, my mouth and
my hair as it spills down over you. Your scent is both fruit-sweet and
musky, earthy and erotic at once as I make a mush of the third berry.
Your shoulder blades stand up in sharp relief as you writhe under my mouth,
and I hear you gasping something that might be my name. I close my fingers
around the base of your cock, stilling your motion and reducing the tension
in your needy flesh. The soft, strangled cries in your throat might be
curses or thanks, I'm not sure, but I hold on until I'm sure you're under
something like control again. All the time you struggle, I continue the
languorous bathing of your spine. When I'm sure your twists are more want
than desperation, I slick one last swipe of tongue over you then stand up
and skin out of my pants.
You turn to look and I'm near to purring when I see the glazed look of need
in your eyes. I kneel over your legs, laying my belly against your ass. A
hiss of pleasure escapes me as you twist up against me. When I'm able to, I
take your cock in hand once more and press the last berry against the back
of your neck with my tongue. The juice rolls down your neck, disappearing
under your throat and I suck the seedy flesh with rough efficiency, then
slide an arm under your chest and pull you up onto your knees, thrusting
myself against the curve of your hip as I chase the droplets down your neck
and shoulder. You're rocking into me, my hand, my gurden, knowing just how
to twist your body into my stomach and make me fair tremble with need for
you. Finally I kneel, straddling one of your thighs and pulling you as
tight against me as I can. I plunder your throat and chest for even the
barest hint of berry, then plunge both hands into your hair and savage your
mouth as I shift my gurden downwards far enough to thrust a stone-hard cock
against your slick and hungry shaft.
You plant both hands in the middle of my chest and push me back, pinning me
to the ground as you gather our cocks in your hand and stroke mercilessly.
Deep growls pour out of you and down my throat as you thrust against me,
stroke me, push my legs farther apart so you can take even more advantage of
my hot and needy body. You break our kiss, turning your head to bite and
kiss down my throat and shoulder and I wrap my arms around you, begging for
more, harder, and you give it to me.
Your hands come up to seize my hair, tilting my head back to expose my
throat. Your hips never still, thrusting unerringly against me, drawing
hoarse, helpless cries of desire from me. Your mouth teases delicately at
the skin under my ear before you sink your teeth into my earlobe and whisper
"Come for me, Kourt. Give me your come."
And I do. My shout frightens a bird into flight and I watch it, stunned as
you ride my orgasm to your own completion. The pale curve of your shoulder
moves in and out of my line of sight as a string of curses spill out of you
and your seed pools with mine between us. Your breath is hot and warm
against me as you struggle to slow it. Your heartbeat is frantic, but when
you turn to me your smile is both sated and joyous. The kiss we share is
long and slow, soothing the last of our shivers with the gentle unity of our
embrace.
After a long interlude of soft petting, I reach out and grab my cloak,
wrapping us both in its warm folds as we drift into a contented doze. The
droning of insects and far-off birdsong is our only lullaby.
-end-
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