The Full Jedi
Authors: Aya (AyaJJ@aol.com), Donna (GAmar@concentric.net) and Mercutio
(mercutio@europa.com)

SUMMARY: Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan and you. ABH, Non Q/O. Sexual situation.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan perform 'The Full Jedi' at a strip club. You get to
watch.

ARCHIVE: Please. As often as possible, and wherever you like.


You let yourself be talked into going out to an all-male strip club for
your birthday. It wasn't your idea; you certainly had other plans for your
birthday like hiding in the closet and pretending that you're not suddenly
three decades old, but when you're a member of a smut mailing list... well,
these things happen.

Obviously you need to improve your choice in friends.

You catch a glimpse of the sign outside the club as you're dragged
inside. ~The Full Jedi.~

Hmm. Maybe you have pretty good friends after all.

On your right, Aya leans into you and shoves a wad of dollar bills into
your hand as she drags you into the noisy atmosphere of the club.

"What are these for?" you ask, even as ideas start flowing through your
head.

"You'll figure it out."

"Ooh, boy."

The crowd at the club is mixed male and female, which doesn't make much
sense to you at first. Until you see the half-naked man Aya is talking to.

Somehow, he manages to be both poised and relaxed, like a sleek panther
about him. His upper body seems better sculpted than Michelangelo's David:
broad shoulders, broader chest, and those arms. You catch yourself in a
near-swoon at the fluid strength of his glistening biceps, and you follow the
bend in his elbow as he
reaches up to comb his massive hand through the silken mane flowing over his
shoulders.

Aya finishes her conversation and steps back. She grins at you and puts
a finger under your chin to close your gaping mouth. "That's just one of the
waiters, dear. Wait 'til you see the floorshow."

"There's a floorshow, too?" you ask, momentarily stunned. "Why?"

Her grin grows wider. "C'mon. I just got us a table down front."

Your gaze is momentarily caught by a shadowed figure sitting well out of
the way of the noise and bustle of the crowd. You see him more because of
his stillness than anything else.

No one word can describe this man, except perhaps *alive*. He is very,
vividly, intensely -- alive. Kinetic energy, ridging and rippling off
everything about him, turning heads, and touching off sparks. And he isn't
even moving... he's just sitting there. Looking. Watching. Waiting. Blue
eyes cover the room with a carelessness borne of long command, elevating a
mere glance to an art form.

*I wonder who he is,* you think, as you follow Aya.

Your heart is now thundering like the theme song to Bonanza in your
chest as you draw closer to your table. Aya grins knowingly as the waiter
she had been speaking to earlier returns with a low-ball glass on his tray.

"But Aya," you protest, "we haven't ordered our drinks yet."

"The gentleman in the corner sends his regards," the waiter explains,
setting the drink down in front of you.

"What is this drink?" you ask immediately, noticing the froth of whipped
cream on top.

"That's called a Screaming Orgasm," Aya smiles. "They're very good.
I've had several in the same night once."

You take the glass. "Sounds good to me."

As the liquid flows down your throat, it occurs to you what a suggestive
thing it is for a man to send a woman a drink called a Screaming Orgasm.
He-- he wants me to have a...

You choke, causing Aya to pound you entirely too heartily on the back.

By the time you fend off Aya's enthusiastic 'assistance' and look back
at the man, he is gone.

"Oh, nice first impression I just made," you cough.

"Look on the bright side," Aya winks.

"*Bright* side?" you shriek. "I just scared off a total stud-muffin and
you say there's a *bright* side?!?"

"Uh-huh." She giggles. "At least he didn't give you 'Sex on the
Beach'."

"Sex on the beach would be an improvement over choking," you mumble.
Your other friend laughs.

You consider getting another drink -- possibly to dump on Aya's head --
when the stage lights dim.

A robed figure steps out into the dimness. As the lights come up, you
see the dark brown of the robes, and gulp, remembering the name of the club.
~The Full Jedi~. Which Jedi, you wonder, is this?

Bass begins pounding out of the house speakers in what can only be
described as a primal beat.

"No braid," your friend whispers.

You swallow hard. "Huh?"

"He doesn't have a braid. He's at least a Knight." Aya giggles. "Not
that it matters. All I want to know is -- how big is his lightsaber?"

"Oh, *please*!" you sob. "Let's just go. I don't need this kind of
humiliation!" But for some reason, you're riveted to your seat... You
cannot... will not move.

Aya laughs and hands you another drink. "Relax. Enjoy yourself for
once."

"I've had fun before," you assert a little more boldly than you
expected. "It's not as if I'm a nun..."

"Ogling guys at the video store and renting 'The Red Shoe Diaries' is
your idea of a hot time. C'mon. Drool like the rest of us."

It's starting to sound like a reasonable idea. After all, you *are*
here.

Then you look up at the stage again.

The robed figure has cast his hood back, revealing a blonde head, with
long hair, and a young face. 'Time of the Season' pulses out of the house
speakers as he prowls the stage.

"A knight!" Aya hoots. "Go baby!"

You look at her in shock and cover your face with your hands. "I don't
know her. I don't know her."

But you're peeking between your fingers, and you see it when he shrugs
the robe off his shoulders in a graceful, careless gesture.

The voice in the song croons, "what's your name? who's your daddy?", and
beside you, Aya lifts her drink and screams, "You are, Scott!"

You really don't know her now. Fortunately, the noise is the bar is
enough that no one is paying attention to one random, screaming woman.

"Who the hell's Scott?" you shout back over the music.

Aya looks at you and laughs. "Never mind."

"Oh....My....God..." you gasp. "It's HIM... Aya... it's *him*!"

The knight must have heard you because he drops to his knees and crawls
to the edge of the stage by you.

His tunic is off, and you can see the solid muscles of his chest. And
the sweat.

You sit slack jawed, looking at the most perfectly masculine male you
have ever seen in your life.

"Oh, my god," you repeat, pulling back in your chair. And while part of
you wants to run, part of you wants to trace the beads of sweat that run over
his chest.

He is nearly in your lap now... you can smell the musk of his body.

Oddly, you are near panic.

The rational part of your mind is telling you that the men here do this,
and this is considered perfectly natural. The rest of you is trying to get
up and run.

Aya nudges you and looks at the wad of cash in your hand.

"What?" you manage, trying to figure out what Aya is doing.

She shakes her head and holds out a five, then gestures towards you.

You look down at the wad of cash in your hand. "What? You want change
for a five *now*?"

Aya ignores you. The knight, however, smiles wider as she slips the
five into his waistband.

You begin to catch a clue, and unwind a handful of the dollars from your
stash, and then... oh, god. He turns to you, and slowly, oh so very slowly,
you slide your hand down his chest, down his stomach, and into his g-string.

Just one little scrap of cloth stands between you and his... um...
lightsaber. Oh, and what a fine looking blade it is! With your hand in his
g-string, you have good reason to know.

Aya cheers and claps wildly as the knight is now straddling your chair.

"Oh, wow..." you gasp, a nervous giggle catching in your throat. "I've
spent a night in a chair, but am about to be spent by a Knight in a chair?"

When the knight finally lifts away from you with one last wiggle of his
pelvis, you slide down into your chair.

"So," Aya asks, leaning toward you, "was that the guy who sent you the
Screaming Orgasm?"

You blink. "No. It wasn't."

She hands you your drink. "Damn." Then she winks. "He seemed more
like the blowjob type to me, anyway."

You take the drink absently. You saw the mysterious man just before the
knight started stripping. You search for him now, and spot him in the wings
of the stage.

Glaring at you.

"Ut oh," you whisper.

"What? You found him?" Aya asks, scanning the room.

Those eyes pin you into your chair, daring you to look away.

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and your mouth goes dry again
despite the drink.

Aya finally sees what you're looking at. "I think you've made a
conquest."

"Conquest," you echo... "Oh, I'd say I've been conquered..."

"Same difference," she answers with a wink. "All I know is I'll
probably be catching a cab home."

You blush and manage to break eye contact with the man. "I wouldn't be
so sure about that."

Aya waves the waiter over. "Let's have another round."

"I know what you're up to," you snort.

"If you didn't, I'd have to worry about your ability to count. How many
drinks have you had so far?"

"Too many. You're trying to get me drunk so you can get me to make a
fool of myself."

"Nah, I think you can do that without getting drunk," she teases.

"Now wait just a minute..." But you are interrupted by the intro music
for the next act.

A high pitched scream pierces the air. Then Prince's "Gett Off" oozes
out of the sound system.

Yet another dark-robed figure steps out, but this time, you recognize
him as soon as he drops his hood. "Mace Windu?" you hiss, not quite able to
believe a council member would do something like this.

You are not nearly as interested in this performance as you were the
last. You have nothing against Master Windu in principle, but you would much
rather see more of the man behind the curtain. Whoever he is.

Though after Mace sheds his tunic, you don't mind in the least.

Not surprisingly, several audience members jump to their feet and hurry
to tip Mace.

You, however, wonder if you should, knowing that *he* is watching you.

But why should you be ruled by your fears? Isn't this night out for the
sake of shedding inhibitions?

Aya has no such qualms, and indeed, seems determined to spend all of her
paycheck here in one night.

Still... even with her example, you cannot bring yourself to.

And seeing the attention Mace is getting, you know your adulation won't
be missed. You watch as Mace bends Aya back over his arm and kisses her in a
showy movement that causes even more money to be flung in his direction.

Of course, Aya doesn't seem to mind the attention at all. She can be so
wonderfully carefree and shameless.

You wish you were more like Aya. That does seem to be a rather
passionate kiss that Mace just bestowed on her, after all. As it is, you are
not made of the same stuff... or if you are, the packaging has settled too
much for you to recognize the similarities in content.

Aya wanders back to her seat, beige sash draped around her shoulders,
grinning like a wild woman. "Didja see that?" she asks.

"Yes," you reply dourly. "How could I not? You just slipped a council
member the tongue. Another trophy to add to your collection," you sigh.

She looks at you, grinning. "Hey, at least it wasn't Yoda."

"If you've done that, don't tell me about it. I don't want to know."

"Well, no, but there was this time..."

You hold up your hand, interrupting her. "I *said*, I don't want to
know. That's just disgusting."

She chuckles and sips her drink.

You consider finishing yours with one gulp, but you are determined to
keep your dignity at least a little longer.

Mace leaves the floor, blowing kisses to the audience as the waiters
make their rounds.

A faster rhythm begins, and you look up, recognizing the distinctive
strains of Offspring. *Someone's going to try to _dance_ to this? They must
be crazy!*

As the next man leaps onto the stage, rolling forward, his cloak
collapsing on the floor behind him, you see the padawan braid trailing
outward and realize. Oh. Obi-Wan.

Aya jumps up quickly and drags you with her to the edge of the stage.
"C'mon, or you'll get trampled."

Obi-Wan wastes no time, tearing the cloth from his skin and throwing it
into the writhing mass of women at his feet, smiling seductively.

Cash in all denominations fly through the air as he gyrates for the
crowd.

The women -- and some men, you note -- are singing along with the song,
but the lyrics you hear aren't the ones you normally associate with the song.

"Give to me, Obi, uh-huh, uh-huh," they chant together, as they proclaim
that Obi-Wan Kenobi is "pretty fly for a Jedi".

You find yourself singing along, caught up in the energy and emotions of
the crowd. And he *is* a sexy dancer. When he goes down on the floor, hips
rocking into it as though it were a living person, you find yourself
clutching your money. You stop yourself only when you feel *his* gaze on you.

But before you have a chance to do more than glance at him, he
disappears, leaving you disappointed. What was the point? If the mystery
man was not going to approach you, you might as well stuff bills in Obi-Wan
already well-stuffed g-string.

"Sith," you mumble before turning your attention to the stage again.

Standing next to the edge of the stage, Aya has Obi-Wan's braid wound
around her fist. He is crouched down, and kissing her. How did she get to be
so lucky? You see the ten dollar bill she's stuffing into his g-string, and
the answer is revealed.

You dare to defy this mystery man at last, and approach to add your own
contribution to Obi-Wan's g-string, then return to your seat. But not before
taking a nip at the padawan's earlobe.

*Take that!* you think.

It takes a very long time for Obi-Wan to get clear of the stage.
Everyone, it seems, wants to touch him and take a little bit of the padawan
home with them. As far as you can tell, Obi-Wan doesn't mind in the
slightest, and wouldn't mind if they picked him up and passed him around as a
party favor.

Not that you blame them. He *is* a very sexy man.

You're sitting at your table when the fuss finally dies down, and you
realize suddenly that Aya is missing. "Yeah, I knew it," you mutter into
your drink, "I'm the one who's going to need a taxi."

You scan the room and see her at the wings, stealing another kiss from
Obi-Wan, who has his arms wrapped around her waist and seems disinclined to
let her go. She waves at you and disappears backstage as Obi-Wan picks her
up and carries her off.

"Typical... Aya gets carried away, and I just sit here. I bet that
guy's already bolted."

You wave down another waiter to order another round. Somehow, compared
to the Jedi, the waiters no longer seem quite so attractive.

As the waiter delivers your drink, a slow, sensuous melody starts up,
completely unlike anything you've heard so far this evening. A bluesy
instrumental, it is out-of-place in the bright lights and semi-nudity.

You sit up in your chair, already anticipating something different, even
though you don't know what.

The club goes silent. They sense something too. Or know something you
don't.

A tall figure moves onto the stage. His entrance is a quiet walk, not
Obi-Wan's flashy acrobatics or Mace's strutting.

Yet the sexuality emanating from his body is more intoxicating that all
the drinks you've had tonight combined.

He stops and drops his cloak, slowly meeting your gaze. Your heart is
racing in an instant.

Those eyes...

It was him all along.

In the bright spotlight, you know who he is, and watch, mesmerized as he
begins to dance. And as he moves, you know that *this* is not for the rest
of the audience. *This* is for you.

Perhaps they all think it's just for them. Qui-Gon Jinn has that
feeling about him.

You try to speak his name, but watching is more absorbing, and you
forget about speaking as he undresses for you. Only for you.

Strong hands move gracefully, unfastening his sash, unwrapping it with
deliberate slowness. His eyes are fixed on yours, watching your reaction.

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, telling yourself to
breathe. He is magnificent.

You know now that this is a kind of contest, that he *will* have more
response from you than you showed the other dancers, that he will prove that
*he* is the master.

There is no one to push you on or encourage you except yourself and his
insistent stare.

You find yourself leaning forward in your chair, disregarding the table
pressing into your ribcage as you edge toward him... toward the stage.

The first dance is now a pale memory hardly worth mentioning.

You realize dimly that the people around you are turning to look at you.
They know that this is not an ordinary dance. But you are too entranced to
care about your audience.

All that matters is Qui-Gon Jinn.

A whisper of a smile crosses his lips as he moves a bit closer to you.

His tunics hang open, giving you glimpses of tanned skin.

He reaches the edge of the stage and kneels, holding out one hand. You
stand and slowly ease the cloth from his shoulders, your fingers skimming his
skin lightly. As his chest is revealed, your hand reaches out of its own
will, tracing from the collar bone to his navel. He leans forward into your
touch for a brief moment, then sways back, leaving you feeling lost.

You want to touch him... you *have* to know that feeling again.

But he is out of your reach, and beyond your control. You breathe
shallowly as you watch him walk away from you.

His torso is as beautiful from the back as the front, but you ache,
wanting him to turn back, wanting very much for this to be real.

You don't like this feeling... being in control, then being out of
control again. Or were you ever in control? Qui-Gon has orchestrated this
night, from the moment you walked in. He sent you that drink, presumably
knowing then that he would be doing
this.

Then his apprentice distracted your companion... Yes, he knows exactly
what he's doing.

The ache grows stronger as you wonder whether he does this every night
-- picks someone out of the crowd to dance for, to make his performance that
much more unique. You could not bear it if it was so.

"Whose party is this, really?" you wonder aloud. You will die of
embarrassment if it turns out that this is simply Aya's idea of a birthday
present for you.

You're drawn to the edge of the stage again, willing him to turn around.
You have to know.

Finally he turns, and you see his leggings unfastened and open at the
waist. Just a bit of encouragement would move them lower.

He comes over to you again, just out of your reach.

You lean a fraction closer, and brush your fingers across the fabric.
Not quite close enough...

His smile taunts you as he slowly moves closer to you. He's close
enough now for you to slide your fingertips into the waistband.

You could slip your hands inside and smooth that fabric from his hips,
leaving him standing in just his g-string. For everyone to see.

Or... You brush your fingers across the bulge in the fabric, drawing a
low moan from him that you don't think anyone else can hear. He grinds his
hips into your hand, before catching it and bringing it up to his lips. His
breath is hot on your fingertips. You curl your fingers around his and are
rewarded with a soft kiss on the knuckles.

*But is this all staged?* You still have to know. *This might be part
of the act...*

The tension is getting to you. You want to say that it doesn't matter,
want to put your hand inside his waistband, and fondle him until he throws
you over his shoulder and carries you off to ravish you in the coatroom.

He seems to pick up on this, and eyes the bills you forgot you were
clutching. You uncurl your fingers and let him take the cash. *Set-up!*
your mind screams. Then he takes one bill and boldly loops it over the
waistband of your skirt. The second he slips slowly down your cleavage to
lodge between your breasts.

At first, you don't understand, but if there were any doubt what the
intense look in his eyes means, the whooping of the crowd settles it for you.

You don't want to know what they're shouting. You really don't. And
even if you did want to know, it's becoming such a cacophony of sound that
you couldn't make out one single phrase.

Qui-Gon pulls you onto the stage, grinding his hips against yours, and
you forget about everything but the feel of him against you.

His face close to yours, he bares his teeth. "Mine." The statement is
possessive, and there is no question in it.

You nod. "Yours."

His smile is triumphant, and he picks you up in his arms, and carries
you off-stage.

Your last coherent thought is to remember to thank Aya for this idea.


-the end-