Your alarm goes off at 7AM. Monday morning, grumble
grumble. You stretch, yawn and make other excuses for not actually leaving your
bed, then peel the covers back and wander into the bathroom. You don't really
hate the morning, you think, just the waking up part. You start the shower, get
undressed and hop in, letting the warm water wash over you. You close your eyes
and lean into the shower, letting the water soak your hair. You reach for the
shampoo but have your hand stilled by another.
"Allow me." Obi-Wan's soft husky voice sends a delicious shiver through you. He turns you around and begins to wash your hair, massaging your scalp with gentle fingers.
"I thought you were going to sleep all morning," you murmur, leaning back.
"No, just a few more minutes," he answers. "After last night, I needed it." You giggle at that but say nothing.
He finishes with your hair and gently tilts your head down, rinsing the suds from it. He then adjusts the shower and puts the conditioner in. You try to stop him, but he insists. "You have such beautiful hair, you deserve to spoil it every so often." Working the creme rinse through your hair, he rinses his hands off and says, "Stay put." You oblige, no problem.
He takes the liquid soap and pours a generous amount into his hands, warming it up a bit. Then he works it into a lather and rubs it on your wet skin. His hands are a little rough, probably from all his training, but you don't mind. His hands feel so good, and he definitely knows how to use them. He starts at your shoulders, soaping your arms, hands, even each finger. He then moved to your breasts, lathering them gently, paying suspiciously close attention to your nipples, teasing them into rosy peaks. You start to half protest, but are silenced by a quick kiss. Running soft fingers along the sensitive curve of your breasts, he turns you around, pulling you against his chest. "Easier access this way," he says, running soapy hands down your belly.
He starts to nibble your neck then stops, sputtering and spitting. You giggle as he turns you back around and rinses the conditioner from your hair. "What's in that stuff, it tastes awful?" he grumbles.
You laugh, "You're not supposed to eat it, Ben." You open one eye and watch him wipe his mouth off with a wet hand.
He smiles wickedly at you. "Note to self," he says, running his hands through your hair again, "this is the only hair we'll use that stuff on." You blush and giggle harder at the implication.
Thoroughly rinsed, he turns you again, and continues where he left off, soaping your belly, moving his hands lower, through your soft curls and lightly teasing you, his mouth on your neck and shoulders, placing teasing nips on your skin. You lean back, guiding one hand back up to your breasts, swirling his fingers around your nipples. The other hand you guide between your legs, letting his talented fingers part your lips and tease your clit. You moan softly, grabbing his hair, as he slowly slides a finger in you, setting a gentle rhythm as he presses his hard shaft against your back. He brings you to a small climax, just enough to make you wetter than any amount of water could. You stifle a moan, then turn your head just enough to beg for another kiss.
He obliges you, turning you in his arms, lifting you quickly and sheathing himself in one motion. Bracing you against the shower wall, he kisses you hard, deep, exploring your mouth with his tongue. He moves his hips against you, his soft moans muffled against your lips. He breaks the kiss off sharply, thrusting into you harder, wilder, moaning against your neck. You wind your hands in his hair, chanting his name. He moans yours softly at first, then yells it, echoing off the tile-covered walls, as he fills you, his body wracked with uncontrollable spasms. His breathing is ragged, harsh against your neck.
"Gods," he says softly.
"Yeah," you agree, "Gods." Your own breath is coming in short gasps. You unwind your legs from around his waist but keep your hold around his neck, just long enough to get your balance. You look at him and smile at his lopsided grin. "I take it you enjoyed that."
He drawls, "Of course love, but I believe turnabout is fair play." He holds the soap out to you, grinning. You take it, wondering where to start.
You begin with his feet and legs, running soapy hands down the length of them, paying close attention to his knees and ankles. You found out almost on accident how sensitive he is there and now take every opportunity to tease him. He stifles a groan; you giggle and work your hands up to his very muscular thighs. You massage the well-defined muscles and quickly run a hand between his legs, teasing his sac just a bit.
"Is that all I get this morning?" he asks teasing.
"For now," you answer, running a finger over his now-erect cock. "Patience, Jedi. Patience."
He lets you finish soaping him, enjoying the feel of your hands on his chest, over his shoulders. You don't really want to arouse him yet, you just want to feel him and let him feel you. You want to pet him.
The phone rings. "DAMN," you grumble, rinsing your hands off quickly and running out of the shower. Grabbing your oversized towel, you lunge for the phone. "Hello?"
You are dripping all over the carpet trying to give the caller your undivided attention, and for the first 5 minutes of the conversation you succeed. Then he comes into your line of sight, towel loosely draped around his hips. He walks toward you, removes his towel and begins to dry you off, starting with your legs, working his way up. You let him, knowing the carpet is probably soaked by now. He moves your towel aside, dropping it to the floor and begins to stroke your back, his breath warm on your cool skin. Your concentration is now divided between your client and the beautiful man rubbing the tight muscles in your neck. You catch yourself before you moan, blowing him a kiss before waving him off. He pouts a bit then goes back to the bedroom. He returns a moment later, still gloriously nude, and sits back comfortably in one of the chairs across from you, one leg draped on the arm of the chair, the other leg close but resting on the floor. You give him a quizzical look. He smiles that smile, the one that says you're in for it.
He produces a small bottle of lotion and squeezes a large amount on his chest. He then slowly spreads it across his chest, smearing some on his arms, working it into the tanned skin. He begins rubbing in slow circles around his nipples with one hand, the other slowly creeping down his belly, rubbing the lotion into the skin, over the light trail of his hair that leads down from his navel. You bite your lip as he gives you that "Naughty Padawan" smile. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, not that your breathing, your eyes, the wetness between your legs and your hard nipples don't give you away. You absently tell your client you need to find your inventory slip and will call him back in about 10 minutes. Hanging up the phone you slowly walk to the chair, transfixed by his hands moving over his skin. He smiles at you again, running his tongue over his lips.
"Yes?"
You growl at him, pull him off the chair and mount him, riding him hard, grabbing his hands and pinning them over his head. He laughs lustily and lets you ride, thrusting up against your hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet passage.
You know when he's close and you tighten your muscles around his thrusting shaft. He muffles his shout through clenched teeth, you stifle a scream against his neck. You relax against each other slowly, your bodies now covered with a light sheen of sweat. "Well, looks like we need another shower," he teases.
You laugh, "After breakfast. And I really need to find that inventory slip." You struggle to your knees and grab your towel again.
"How about you find your papers and I'll fix us something to eat?" he offers. You agree quickly, then stifle a giggle as he ties your apron around his waist and starts breakfast.
You ask him, "Did you want to put something else on first?"
He smiles, washing his hands. "No, unless it bothers you."
You love the idea of a mostly naked man cooking you breakfast. "It doesn't." You go grab your bathrobe and go off in search of the invoice.
You wander back in your oversized purple bathrobe, carrying a hunter green one over your arm, just in case he changes his mind. Going into your office, you start ruffling through the papers, searching for the missing invoice. After a few minutes you find it and call your client back and begin reading him numbers.
Ben comes in with a hot cup of tea first, still clad in your "Kiss the cook. no, Lower" apron. Setting it down, he waits patiently while you rattle numbers off. You smile and tell your client, "Hang on," then press mute. You crook your finger, calling Ben closer, then press a soft kiss on his belly.
"No, lower," he teases.
"After breakfast," you smile. He pouts and wanders out, giving you a glorious view of his backside, the white apron ties bouncing gently against his lovely tan cheeks. You sigh, clear your throat, then get back to your call.
Twenty minutes later you adjust the tie on your robe and go to the table. Breakfast is simple but looks exotic: sliced fruit, a china bowl of yogurt, toast with jelly, tea and juice. You ask about coffee, but he shakes his head. "I don't really care for it, but if you want some, I can make some." You shake your head, not wanting to go through any more trouble. He seats you quickly, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Then you realize there's no silverware in front of you. You glance at him smiling as he brandishes the spoon. "After all, I am supposed to serve you today."
He starts with the yogurt, carefully feeding you, smiling the whole time. You take a tentative spoonful, then look at him smiling.
"You don't have to feed me, you know," you half protest. "What about your breakfast?"
"I know, but I want to. I'll eat in a minute." He carefully lifts another spoonful moving a little closer. You feel the edges of your robe slowly open. Then SPLAT! The cold yogurt falls onto your breasts. You flinch at the sensation, the half-glare/half giggle.
"You did that on purpose."
He looks at you, all innocence. "I would never do such a thing." Then that devilish grin again. "But seeing as it would be a terrible waste," he leans forward, kneels in front of you and slowly laps the cream off your skin.
You lean back, sighing, wondering if you'll actually get any work done today, and if you actually care if you don't. He's insatiable; you like that in a man. He nips your skin softly, baring more of your body, easing the robe from your shoulders. He catches your nipple between his teeth and sucks it lightly, slowly moving your chair back. Your fingers tangle in his hair, then run over his muscled shoulders. His hands are on your waist, then at your hips and he suddenly pulls you forward and buries his head between your legs. You claw his shoulders moaning as he teases you, flicking your clit softly, his talented fingers sliding in you. You throw your head back, breathing his name.
RIIIIING! You both freeze. Dammit! you curse, I'll have the blasted thing disconnected. You grab the phone and take a deep breath, Ben kneeling in front of you, looking on curiously. "Hello? Master Qui-Gon, hi." Ben yells "Hi, master."
"Good morning, I hope I didn't wake you?" Qui-Gon's voice is pleasant, cheery.
"No, you didn't wake me, Obi-Wan and I were having breakfast." Ben gives you a wicked grin. You mouth to him, well we were. He stifles a chuckle then begins to stroke you again.
"Good, I hope he won't be in the way. I'll pick him up this evening, we were just assigned another mission."
"No," you say biting your lip to keep from moaning, "he's not in the way at all... He's actually a great help to me." Ben's back between your legs now, tasting you, teasing you.
"That's good to hear," Qui-Gon says. "I hope he doesn't become a problem."
"Oh no," you sigh, gripping the arm of the chair. "No problem at all." Jeez, you think, you're sexy and wonderful, but Qui-Gon, please hang up soon. You take a deep breath, then, "Well I don't want to tie you up much longer."
Ben murmurs, "Tied up? OK." You bite your lip again as he flicks that spot.
Qui-Gon laughs. "Very well, I will speak to you tonight." Ben pauses in his ministrations a moment, then says loudly, "Yes master, I will." There is an audible click and the line goes dead.
You stare at Ben. "You will what?"
He grins and waves his arm. The dishes move swiftly across the table as he lifts you onto the edge. "This." He pushes you back so you lie on the tabletop, legs around his waist. He enters you in one smooth motion, his hips thrusting his cock into your sheath. He cups your breasts, slowly losing his famed Jedi control. His moans mimic yours; short, breathy, primal. Never breaking his rhythm, he guides you to a sitting position and ravishes your mouth, his tongue dueling yours for a moment before breaking away and sinking his teeth into your shoulder.
Oh Bloody Hell is your last coherent thought. You claw his back, leaving red welts on his tan skin. You bite his shoulder, then cling to him as he lifts you from the table, his shaft still in you. He lowers you both to the floor and he begins moving again, thrusting deep in you, grunting, moaning, breathing your name as he rides you. You meet his every thrust, arching against him. He's close, but waits for you, mentally stroking you, physically holding you, shuddering against you. "Come, baby, please come."
Your scream mixes with his as you climax together, collapsing in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs. After a few minutes of heavy breathing, you start to giggle. "You know what this means?"
He answers, his amusement lacing his voice, "Back to the shower."
This time the shower is quick, but playful, since Ben seems to be recharging. You soap each other, taking turns laving on the suds. You do get to wash his hair this time, and listen to his gurgling growls and he nibbles on your shoulders and breasts. Rinsing off quickly, you hop out and take special care drying each other.
You go into the bedroom and start picking out clothes for the day, tossing Ben a pair of oversized boxers (his Jedi uniform is in the wash, one of those pesky Cool Whip accidents, but then that's another story). He raises an eyebrow, but slips them on and wanders out. You throw on a denim shirt and shorts and go in search of your wonderful padawan.
He's in the kitchen again, this time clearing the mess. He's cranking the music, shaking it while he washes the dishes. You stand and watch for a while, his hips swaying from side to side, thrusting forward every so often, babbling gibberish in time to the music. The chorus comes up and suprisingly he knows the words, belting them out at full volume:
The morning starts out uneventful, you inputting your stats, Ben coming in from time to time, bringing you tea, snacks and placing the occasional kiss on your lips. About two hours into the 'work-day' he comes in and plops into the chair across from your desk. "Anything else, my lady?"
You smile. "Can you file?"
His eyebrows go up and he gives you a smart-assed grin. "Sure, but I'm a better buff-and-polish guy."
You laugh then, shaking your head. Putting your hand on the small stack, "These need to be alphabetical into there." You point to the file cabinet in the corner.
He nods, "As you wish my master," then takes the stack. Twenty minutes later he's back in the chair lounging, watching you work.
"Almost finished?" he asks.
"In a bit," you answer, not taking your eyes from your papers. You're tempted to just trash the whole lot and jump on him then and there.
Why not? he asks, now in your mind.
"Because I have to get this done," you sigh. "It won't take much longer.."
I hope not, I read an interesting magazine under your table and it's made me curious.
Your mind races, oh jeez, what was under the table, Hot Jedi Hunks hasn't come out yet.
I believe it was called Cosmopolitan. The article was "How to be a genius with his you-know-what"
You turn bright red, and look up. He's got one hand behind his head, and one hand teasing you at the waistband of his boxers. I assume you've read the article. Want to practice?
You bite your lip then, breaths coming out in short bursts. He slides his hands into his boxers and then lifts his hips enough to slide them off his body. He's nude again, sprawled in your big chair, his hand slowly stroking his shaft with his beautiful fingertips. The red tip bobs up and down as he takes it between his fingers and begins to stroke. He stops for a moment, just long enough to run his tongue across his palm, wetting it thoroughly. He then wraps his fingers around his cock and slowly begins to stroke it, running his hand up and down the length, the head peeking out from between his fingers at the top of each stroke. He shifts in the chair, and begins to arch his hips up in rhythm with his hand.
I can stop if you like.
You lean back, loving the show. "No you can't."
He looks at you then, and you're surprised you don't burst into flames. He starts moving faster then, his grunts and moans coming faster and louder. He's pumping harder and harder, all the time watching you, licking his lips and panting. His skin is now covered with a sheen of sweat that makes his skin glow. You feel the wetness between your legs, and unconsciously slide your hand between your legs. He sees this and smiles.
Can I watch?
"You first," you breathe.
He gives you another wicked grin and then throws his head back, eyes closed, moaning softly. His hand is pumping wildly now, and you watch him slack-jawed as his hips arch up, his body wracked with spasms from his orgasm. He comes with a shout, frozen for a few seconds mid-thrust, hips arched against his fist, then collapses into the chair, breathing ragged, his belly and fist covered with white, sticky cum. It takes a few moments for him to gather his wits. He finally turns to you with the same naughty grin.
"Your turn," he drawls.
You return the wicked grin. "I may need some help."
He cleans up with his discarded boxers and rolls off the chair with cat-like grace. He crawls over and starts tugging gently on your shorts with one hand, undoing your shirt with the other. You sit, watching him, lightly stroking him with your toe. Your shirt is open now and he starts pressing wet kisses on your stomach, undoing the drawstring of your shorts.
RIIIIING
You jump, he's on his knees ready to pummel the phone with your computer keyboard. Luckily (?) you grab the phone before he can. "Hello? Oh hi Master Qui-Gon." Ben looks exasperated, sitting back on his heels.
Tell him to shut up.
"No! What, no not you. Obi-Wan just asked me a question." You roll your eyes, but stifle a giggle.
Tell him to hang up so I can strip you naked and fuck you until your eyes bug out.
He emphasizes this by sending you mental images that make you swallow hard. Your jaw drops, overcome with sensation. You vaguely remember who you're talking to. "Oh, of course. Sorry again, I just needed to answer Obi-Wan again. Huh? Oh sure." You hand Ben the phone and laugh. "It's for you."
He grins, taking the receiver and props it on his shoulder. "Good morning Master." His voice is smooth, deferential, with a bit of attitude. "Uh huh, of course." He's pulling at your shorts again, this time successfully removing them, revealing black lace panties. "Could you hold on just a moment Master?" he says, then covering the mic, dives between your legs, running his tongue over the already wet silk. You stifle a scream.
"Ok, I'm back." He's back to business, still seated between your legs, now stroking you through the wet silk. You start to moan then catch yourself, not wanting Qui-Gon to think all you did with his apprentice was ride him raw.
Well, he's not raw yet...
You turn back to the computer, logging back in and start crunching more numbers. Ben, still on the phone, takes the keyboard and sets it in your lap, then crawls under the desk. You smile as he starts stroking your legs, still talking to Qui-Gon, occasionally flicking his tongue over the tops of your feet and knees. His hands move higher stroking the sensitive skin along your thigh. You stifle another moan, and try to concentrate on this month's figures.
You'd rather concentrate on the one under your desk.
"Just a second, master." He crawls out and hands you the phone, then searches your desk for something. You talk to Qui-Gon again, wondering what Ben's looking for. He pulls open a drawer and smiles. Reaching in, he pulls out the scissors, grinning at you, he crawls back under the desk, pushing your chair out a bit.
Your eyes widen a bit. You were kidding about the raw comment, you think, then flinch as he slides his fingers into the side of your panties. SNIP! He moves to the other side. SNIP! Pulling the silk away from your hips, he strokes you gently with his fingers.
Easy access
And he's between your legs again with his talented tongue, laving your most sensitive spots with such precision, you are hard pressed to scream. He pushes your chair back more and starts pressing kisses onto your belly, stroking you gently with his fingers. He closes his mouth on your nipple as he slides his fingers into you. You gasp, then immediately start making up excuses to Qui-Gon. Ben's in your mind again...
You, me, your digital camera and chocolate sauce.
He's sucking your breast, flicking your nipples with one hand, while getting you off with the other. Between what he's doing to your body and the images he's projecting into your mind, you can hardly breathe.
You, me, that edible glitter you have in the kitchen.
You bite your lip, while grabbing his ponytail in your free hand.
Or if you'd rather. You, me, him, some oil and a game of Twister.
You say very quickly, "Master, can I put you on hold?" You don't wait for an answer, but press the hold button and drop the receiver. He pulls you out of the chair and sprawls on the carpet next to you.
"It was Twister wasn't it," he grins.
"Shut up and fuck me!" You grab him and pull him into a deep kiss, plunging your tongue into his mouth. He growls then and sheathes himself in you, grabbing your hands and pinning them to the floor. His hips grind into yours hard, fast, wild and you vaguely wonder how he's gonna explain his rugburns. You thrust up against him with just as much enthusiasm, wrapping your legs around his waist, your whimpers and moans muffled by his lips. You come swiftly, screaming, arching up against his body, feeling his muscles tighten against yours. He falls on you, breathing heavily, smiling a crooked smile.
Your phone beeps and you remember who you have on hold. Weakly struggling to your knees, you grab the phone. "Sorry bout that," you stammer.
Qui-Gon chuckles. "Not at all. Just let Obi-Wan know I'm on my way to come get him."
Qui-Gon was on his way over. You have exactly twenty minutes to get Ben dressed, you dressed and get the place looking like the shagfest of the season didn't take place. You both grab the remains of your clothing and throw them into the file cabinet (You'll get them out later). Ben hops back into the shower and rinses off quickly while you grab his uniform out of the dryer. Let's see, socks, leggings (good the chocolate came out) under tunic, over tunic, sash, tabard. Crap. Hopefully the sash will ride high enough to cover that spot. The shower is still running so you have time to throw on a sundress and rake a comb through your hair. The shower stops and Ben is back in the bedroom franticly drying off. Ten minutes to go.
You help him dress, watching the muscles play under his skin with every movement. He missed a spot drying off, and you watch a drop of water run down the hollow of his neck, down his broad tan chest, across his belly and weave itself into the thin line of hair that dips into his leggings.
DAMN get your mind out of the man's pants, Qui-Gon will be here in five minutes. You notice Ben watching you with a Cheshire cat grin and smile sheepishly in return. Taking his under tunic, he drawls, "I guess no glitter this time." You giggle and hand him his over tunic. He fastens the sides and takes the tabard from you but then wraps it around your waist and pulls you into a soft undemanding kiss. You respond in kind, exploring his mouth with your tongue, drinking in his clean scent, his taste. You twine his braid in your fingers and stroke it gently. God, you want to eat this man alive. He starts to step forward, moving you closer to the bed.
Three minutes! Qui-Gon will be here in three minutes. You break away reluctantly and hand him his sash. He sighs and, fixing his tabard, ties his sash. It doesn't quite cover all the chocolate but then maybe Qui-Gon won't notice. His boots are by the door but his outer robe is still tangled in the sheets. He puts it on, smiling. "It still has your perfume on it." He pulls you close for one more kiss then heads out to the living room.
He just finishes buckling his boots when the doorbell chimes. You start for the door but Ben stops you. "I can whammy him into coming back later." Tempting. No you can't do that to him. You kiss Ben one more time then answer the door. Qui-Gon stands there, a serene smile on his lips. You invite him in and after a bit of small talk, the two Jedi leave, but not before Ben kisses your hand. They go down the walk to the waiting transport, waving before going inside.
You go back inside and start making your battle plan for the rest of the day. After a few minutes, you say the hell with it and lounge in the front room, some soft jazz on the stereo. Your doorbell chimes again. You answer it and are surprised to see Qui-Gon standing there. They left about ten minutes ago, I wonder if he forgot something. You invite him in.
"Qui-Gon, is everything," is as far as you get before he sweeps you into an embrace kissing you gently. You stare up at him dazed. He shrugs out of his cloak and starts to lower the straps of your dress.
"Now," he asks, his eyes twinkling, "What was this about Twister?"
DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction written in
appreciation of Star Wars; to promote the franchise and to keep it alive. All
characters and settings original to Star Wars are copyright to Lucasfilm, Ltd.
The rest is copyright to the author.
(With MAJOR props to the Sith Academy
for Ben's apron; also to Bega, Zippy, Perez and Prado for the song, "Mambo #5")