Archive: Yes to StarWarsfic, M_A, or anyone else who might want
it.
Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault
and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for
emphasis, // for thought. Any weird characters should be hunted
down and killed.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: Obi-Wan's nightly ritual.
{This was inspired by, of all things, the dedication on another
completely unrelated story that I was reading recently. Box
tops, people. It's a good thing I don't eat breakfast. . .}
His eyes are blue.
Not the man in front of me; his eyes are brown with green
flecks. I can see that clearly even in the semi-darkness of
this alley that we are in. My eyes are sharp enough to see the
gray ring around the iris, the puzzled look in the eyes when I
don't speak. My silence doesn't really matter, however, because
we both know what I am here for. The unnamed man shrugs and
drops to his knees in front of me, and I close my eyes tightly,
until the only thing I can see are the flashes of coloured
light that always signify this act to me. If I was still
wearing my robe, I might cover him with it and pretend to be
someone who slumped against this wall in exhaustion; but I am
not wearing my robe, and my tunic is bunched up around my
nipples, exposing the pale flesh of my belly, and my groin. To
anyone who might pass in this alley, I'm simply a young man
being pleasured by a stranger; if they choose to look closely
enough, they will see the braided tail of hair that marks my
status, although my 'saber is hidden deep in the folds of my
discarded cloak. My abandon proves that I do not care what any
passers-by might think; I am concentrated only on this act that
I am so passively involved in. I look down at the head of the
man who has taken me in his mouth, and wonder if I will
remember *this* one, out of the hundreds who have previously
been in his place. Whenever his head moves away and leaves me
wet and exposed to the night air, I shiver. He takes those
shivers to mean that he's pleasing me. I say nothing.
I cannot *think* nothing. Night after night I have sought to
turn off my mind, to surrender myself fully to the sensations
around me - the cool air on my cock, the warmth of the mouth
that captures me, the tight muscles of the throat I am being
forced into, the velvet-softness of a tongue that seeks my
release. I know others would find this role of mine bliss, but
I fear that I am growing too used to it. I still come, of
course; that is a reaction that I cannot contain, even if I
wanted to, but my mind wanders away from my body sometimes, and
when it is over I must hastily piece together a reaction that I
have not fully experienced. Luckily, I have had plenty of
experience - more than enough to make every encounter live in
my mind, whether real or imagined.
I dread the night when I cannot do it. When I cannot experience
complete pleasure from this tiny act of violation, it will be
time to move on to one of the more active transgressions in my
catalogue of sins. The fear of that sends another shiver
through my body, and my unnamed partner takes that as a signal
that I am nearly finished. I decide not to disappoint him; the
air is cool, and although his attentions towards me have not
flagged, I know his jaw must be sore.
I lick my fingers and tweak one nipple, signalling to my body
that it is time to come. Touching myself has become an
automatic response, like a hypnotic suggestion. I wonder
sometimes if I could go from a dormant state to full arousal
and ejaculation without even touching my cock, just by pinching
my nipples, but I have never had the opportunity to try. Some
part of me wants to demonstrate my abilities to an audience of
one alone - just to see if he would be shocked or proud of such
a special skill.
I banish that thought from my mind. Such things only make this
harder than it has to be.
The sucking has continued unabated, and I bite my lip and start
to moan, not because it is an indication of what I am feeling,
but because it is my part to play, and because he expects it
from me. I am able to milk every sensation from my body to the
fullest without seeming insincere; I simply focus on it the way
I have been taught to focus on everything in my life. I give my
nipple one last pinch and then flood this stranger's mouth with
my seed; I feel the heat of his come on my leg even through my
thick boots, and smother my laugh. I did not even realize that
he was pleasuring himself, as well, all this time. Or maybe he
wasn't; maybe there is another somewhere down there in the
darkness, handling this stranger as he handles me, in a
daisy-chain of illicit pleasure. Or maybe my orgasm was strong
enough to go right through his body, and exit his cock. I try
to imagine that, but only laughter comes to my mind, so I shut
it off. I have stopped shaking, and peel my hands away from the
wall they are clenching when I feel I can trust my legs to hold
myself up. I do not want to fall and end up in this man's arms;
I know how difficult it can be to extract myself from a
stranger's embrace, and now that we are finished I must quickly
leave, before my absence is noticed.
I pull up my trousers and pull down my tunic, and use the hood
of my cloak to shield my face and my too-bright eyes. I drop a
few coins at the stranger's feet and wonder if he is one of the
ones who will be surprised by my generosity, or if he will
think I am merely happy with his work. I don't care. I must
return to the Temple and make my way to my room before he gets
there. Within seconds I am inside an aircar and on my way,
surrounded by more strangers I easily ignore.
It is as if nothing has happened.
I am careful to wash myself thoroughly under the hottest water
possible, to scrub myself with the soap and remove all traces
of my own seed and especially the touch of my partner. I do not
want that scent on me, for I know how sensitive *his* nose is,
and how much a foreign scent on my body would disturb him. I
complete my ablutions inside of five minutes, including a quick
scrub of my sweat-soaked hair, and re-dress for bed. I know
that there isn't much time left.
My head has only just touched the pillow when the chime rings.
I do not answer it. It is easier to pretend that I have been
asleep all this time if I do not, and I know that my silence
will not prevent his entry into my room. It is his right, as is
everything in my life. I own nothing within these walls, not
even my body.
When the door slides open, he does not enter. He stops in my
doorway and calls out, "Obi-Wan?" softly, to see if I am
asleep. We both know that I am wide awake, although my eyes are
shut tight; the real question is whether or not I will answer
him. I am allowed to defer this time, and only this, but every
night I answer.
"Yes?"
No 'Master' dogs my words; I cannot bear to say it to him in
the darkness that surrounds us.
"Are you all right?"
I hesitate, just a second, and then nod. I know that his eyes -
his blue eyes - can cut through the darkness as well as or
better than mine, and the moonlight is shining in on my bed,
anyway, making it as bright as a Corellian day.
"Do you want to talk?"
He is so tentative, so hesitant, as if he thinks he is
bothering me. As if he supposes his words can hurt me any more
than what I have been through tonight. I almost hate him for
that hesitance, but I cannot, not really. If I could hate him -
I motion him over and he perches on the edge of my bed. In
soft, plain words, I tell him everything that I can remember of
this evening, from the description of the alley to the aircar
which returned me to the temple; every motion, every smell,
every gesture, every feeling. I weave a tale that fascinates
even myself, and by the end I almost believe it to be true. The
only thing that I omit tonight - and that I have omitted every
night since these lessons started - is my description of the
eyes.
My Master has given me strict instructions, and I do not want
to disobey him, and although I betray him night after night, he
must never know. I am to choose only ones with blue eyes, you
see - the height does not matter, nor the colour of the skin;
they can be bald or hairy, human or not, Jedi Master or street
urchin, but they *must* have blue eyes. He asks me every night
if I have done his bidding, and I nod; it is always his last
question, and I lie to him so beautifully that it does not
alter his pleasure one bit. He takes my description and rises
slowly, as if he is carrying the words gently in his hands. He
does not speak before he leaves my room for his, nor does he
touch me. I must not speak, for fear of breaking the spell that
he is under. I did that once, and found myself sent out into
the chill night once again. It was the only time that I was
sent out twice in one night; if I have my way, it will remain
the only time.
I have never asked him why it must be this way between us; I do
not know why I may defile myself with so many faceless men and
be denied the one who has solely defined desire in my young
life. I do not wholly believe that it is a Jedi rule that we
are following; I have a growing suspicion that it may be my
Master's rule alone, but there is no-one I can ask without
betraying myself, and him, and although I do not care about
myself, I would not betray him for the world.
He is my Master, and I do as he bids me. I cannot even pretend
that I do not feel pleasure from what I am asked to do, for I
do, every night - when he goes to bed and I can feel him
through the walls, feel his hands milking the cock that my
words have hardened but I may never touch, feel the shudders
that I have caused but may never witness. It, and my deception
about the men I allow to touch me night after night - my small
deception about those men and their eyes - is my pleasure.
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