Category: Hurt/Comfort, S/M, Fetish/Kink, Drama, and Romance
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Yes. 1) It has heavy S/M, needles, and bloodletting;
2) It's an indulgence for those who like it intense; 3) It's
really weird. Let's just work with that....
Summary: Some missions require specialized skills.
Feedback: Yes, please. That would be lovely.
Story lineage: Res Q started this, and I haven't been able to
get that image out of my mind. Not exactly what the challenge
asked for, but it's close. And Glorianna had a hand in it as
well, by making me realize I'd written no kink in PM.
Thank you to both elynross and Sandy for the beta, and to Kim G
and Maygra for the support.
It doesn't take much to get him into bed; it takes a lot more
to keep him. I manacle each wrist with the chains provided,
cutting and tearing away his robes as required. The men around
me laugh, watching the Jedi Master humbled. It is what they
live for.
But Qui-Gon and I have played this game before, though never as
deeply as we plan to do now. As Jedi, we held ourselves back
from that edge, a luxury we could not afford. There are no such
protections here; we must rely on trust. I can read it in his
eyes as he watches me, though I cannot feel it in the Force.
The room itself is shielded.
"Can't you be quicker about it?" Loquim, the regent's brother,
calls out. "We'll be at this all night."
"If you're bored," I say, turning to glare at him, "I suggest
you go elsewhere. This is going to take a while."
He gapes at me. "What?"
I speak calmly to him, as if to a child. "Loquim, he's a Jedi.
He's been trained to ignore pain. You don't think a few hours
of simple torture is going to give you what you want, do you?"
I nod at Qui-Gon. "Look at him. He's already been beaten. If
the answer was easy, don't you think you'd have it by now?"
He visibly pales under his neatly-trimmed beard as he gazes at
the battered body, and I remember that he is only recently come
into this little conspiracy. I finish securing my former Master
to the bed and turn my attention completely to Loquim, playing
my role as Inquisitor to the hilt.
Laying a black-gloved hand on his arm, I speak softly. "Your
sister said she needed the information by tomorrow night, and I
will have it for her. If you have no stomach for this, you'd
better leave now." I gesture at the cameras that are monitoring
the room. "You have other spies in here. You need not be
present yourself."
The information that Qui-Gon will give me is fake, anyway. What
matters is that the extraction of it appear real.
Loquim's gaze darts to a rivulet of blood dripping from
Qui-Gon's forehead onto the floor, and he immediately turns
back at me, swallowing hard. "Yes," he says softly, "I see your
point." He nods to the guards, and they flank him as he leaves,
leaving me alone with Qui-Gon.
I let my eyes dwell on his chest and his cock. There are how
things seem, and how things are. The conspirators will see what
they expect, a man tortured to give up his information -- while
Qui-Gon and I make love.
Your perception determines your reality, or so the saying goes.
I feel my palms sweat. I am supposed to be the Inquisitor,
hardened by time into a man capable of doing whatever needs to
be done. Part of me thrills at the image I have to present and
the freedom that come with it: freedom from the rules and
regulations of the Jedi code.
Part of me fears that, as well. Am I ready for this? Or will I
get caught up in the web we've spun? Can I hold back enough
once we start? Is it the right time for me to be the master?
Too much thinking. Time to begin.
I take out the medical kit and make a point of sorting through
unlabeled bottles before filling the injector. Let those
observing us think I am injecting him with a truth serum,
rather than antibiotics and vitamins. I apply the drug, and
Qui-Gon jerks away, his breath hissing through his teeth.
I turn his head to the side. They'd caught his ear when he was
attacked; I need to get bacta on that. He pulls his head out of
my hands and stares defiantly at me; I smile back. The bacta
will be laced with salt, and it will sting like hell. Qui-Gon
will love that.
I pull out my knife and caress the blade, making sure that
Qui-Gon sees it, knows that this will be the trigger. His eyes
widen, and he nods, saying nothing, and my eyes flick down to
his groin.
I can see that his interest is already piqued. We haven't
played rough in a long, long time. Not since--
Naboo.
I can't help myself; I have to look. I sit down on the bed next
to him and run my hand over the scars on his chest. If I tilt
my head just right, it almost forms a starburst pattern. I draw
my knife along the edge of it, tracing out a non-existent line.
"How did you get this?" I ask, an easy opening, as I already
knew the answer.
Qui-Gon does not reply.
That's good. He isn't supposed to, not until I use the blade,
anyway. This isn't supposed to be easy on anyone.
I turn away from the scar and put the knife down on the tray.
"Would you like some water?" I ask, knowing he'll be thirsty.
He doesn't say a word.
I pick up the pitcher of water and pour myself a glass, aware
of how he is observing me. I drink, then pour another and let
it sit.
We'll come back to that later.
Naboo had been a turning point for me, in more ways than one.
The discovery of the Sith meant that more knights were needed
in the field, and some in...less savory positions. Imagine my
initial joy at finding out that Qui-Gon lived and that I would
be knighted, only to be sent as far away from Coruscant as
could be managed.
With Qui-Gon injured, the healers learned many things, privacy
being difficult for a comatose man. My preferences were
accepted, given that they had not affected my life as a Jedi --
that indeed, they could enhance it, be of use to the order. No
one would look at me as they commended the way I had been
trained, as I was told how my predilections could be an asset
in certain situations, as I was admonished to take care and not
let them pull me into the dark side.
But I was not to be allowed near Anakin. The healers said that
the boy had similar tastes. I was astonished by that. Nine
years old and they already could tell.
Anakin was what, now? Thirteen? No one had found out about me
until I was sixteen, and I hadn't known about Qui-Gon until I
was twenty. I walked in on him unexpectedly while he was deep
in meditation, his arms and thighs a patchwork of needles,
little red dots where they pricked the skin. I was elated that
someone else in the order felt something of what I felt; I
watched him a long time, watched his careful, measured
breathing as he inserted each needle, getting harder the longer
I watched.
I knew what he wanted, and I knew that I could give that to
him. Eventually, he let me, but it was always controlled. We
always took care to make sure our commitment never wavered,
made sure that no taint of darkness ever appeared. In our play,
despite our preferences, Qui-Gon was still the Master; he
remained in control.
But prisoners have no control, and Inquisitors have no Jedi
Code. Here and now, I am an Inquisitor first, though always a
Jedi. I will be in control. The thought is a heady one, sending
the first spark of arousal through me, a sharp jolt to my groin
that makes my cock tingle. I step away from Qui-Gon and center
myself, breathing carefully, bringing myself back to my role.
"You know what I am going to do to you."
"Yes."
"Good." I cast my eyes at the tools I'd brought, figuring out
where to start. Something small to warm him up, to get the
blood to the surface and start the endorphin rush. A tease more
than anything else, yet it had to look and sound a lot worse.
A strap was good. A wide one made a lot of noise when it hit,
no matter how light a stroke I used. And if I started with
Qui-Gon's chest...he'd flinch as he saw the stroke fall. The
image makes me almost shiver.
Arms, thighs, chest, building it up a bit before changing his
position. The more I imagine, the more flushed I feel, thinking
about how Qui-Gon will react. I can feel myself getting hard
just thinking about it. Imagine what it will be like once I
start using the strap....
It won't be long before I'll need to switch to something a
little stronger, a little narrower, that will dig in and raise
a few welts. Qui-Gon's skin takes bruises beautifully, showing
quickly and with little effort; my cock twitchs at the thought.
Once he is well-marked, I'll go for a change of sensations, to
creams and ointments and lingering pain--
And end it with sharp. There's a subtle sound that flesh makes
as it's cut; I noticed it the first time I ate meat, how the
knife catches and slides as it goes through muscle, how the
pieces fall away from each other. It's beautiful, and there's
nothing else like it in the world.
I'm sweating, imagining what that will be like, my erection
already aching inside my pants. My hands ache to curl around
the handle of the knife, touch the blade to skin. Qui-Gon will
let me cut him -- will want me to cut him -- when the time is
right. All we have to do is perform, and what he said will be
believed.
He just has to trust me to know when it's right.
Qui-Gon wants to please me. I can see it in his eyes, in the
way they flash to me; I can feel it in the way he breathes, a
constant flow of air, not held at all. His body knows me, knows
I can give him what he wants.
And I do want to please him. Part of my own pleasure comes from
seeing how much he enjoys this, my cock reminding me of that
with every beat of my heart. I measure the distance from where
I stand to my target, already anticipating where the leather
will fall, deciding where to place my mark. My hands tremble,
and I have to relax them, let the blood flow. I like precision
in my placement, and I can't let my own excitement overrule
that. I have to stay in control.
I bring the strap down; it lands with a snap and a thud,
leaving a red welt behind. His body trembles, but he doesn't
cry out. It's too soon for that; he hasn't been pushed enough.
And I will push him. Push him so hard and so rough that each
time the strap hits, it will feel like an electric current
running up his spine. He'll gasp and moan and jerk away, his
movements becoming a dance as he tries to avoid what will
happen.
But I won't let him. I have to be faster than he is, out think
where his body will move, the two of us working in harmony,
almost like a kata, leaving his skin criss-crossed with welts.
I want to see those marks, know that I caused them and that he
is mine.
I hit him again and again, varying the force and the pressure,
changing the rhythm, trying to keep him off-balance. At last he
gasps, and I know I have him; I grin in triumph. We both have
what we want.
There is an answering light in Qui-Gon's eyes, one quickly
hidden as the strap lands again. He jerks and hisses in pain,
and I know, I *know* it feels good.
"Where did you get the scar?" I ask again.
He turns his head from me and wraps his hands around the chain,
holding on to it instead of talking to me. His strength is
amazing. I can't help but brush my erection against his hand as
I move to a new position. He risks it and strokes me when the
camera can't see, but it's not the right time for that.
Sometimes I envy him, his ability to take pleasure from
anything he's given. It shows such a connection to the Living
Force that it's almost impossible to put into words. He once
said that at the peak moment, it is as if he is one with
everything. He exists only in the moment.
I want to give him that.
I move into position and hit him again.
The longer it lasts, the more of a connection there is between
us. I'm struggling to keep my control, my cock weeping in my
uniform pants, desperate for relief. I know he's struggling,
too; the pain feels so good to him, but the others don't see
that. They don't know how much he craves this -- but I do. I
crave it, too.
"Where did you get the scar?" My voice is hard and low, darkly
threatening. He shivers at the sound, his nipples tight and
erect, but he makes no other sound. I hate his silence; I feel
distant and alone. I need to hear him scream.
I bring out the bacta, the one laced with salt, but he barely
jerks when I spray it on the welts from the other beatings.
He's still into himself, still acting defiant. I have to erase
that act before we can do anything else.
I pick upone of the creams, a healing balm laced with menthol
and fireoil, and hold it over his head where the cameras can
see it. The burn faded quickly -- perhaps too quickly -- but
too much fireoil could damage the skin. "This cream goes on
cool. You won't notice it at first, but as it works its way
into the skin it will burn." I set the jar down and stare at
him. "Enough of it, and the skin blisters and cracks. It is
quite painful, especially when you have all those welts."
His body tenses as I talk, and I feel a moment of panic, but it
his emotion, or my own? Does he trust me enough not to push it
too far? Do I trust myself enough to be able to read him so I
don't overstep his bounds? Can he accept the pain that I need
to give him now? Can I give him the amount of pain he desires?
He licks his lips, and his body relaxes; whatever was running
through his mind, the moment is over. I can almost feel him
blend deeper into the Force, even with the shield on.
I can't sink into myself like that. I have to protect us both.
I take care to use gloves.
The cream gives me a chance to touch him, to slide my hands
over his skin, caressing him: the Inquisitor luxuriating in his
prisoner's pain. It grounds me, that feel of Qui-Gon's muscle,
his hands, feet, legs, arms. I make sure to caress his nipples,
rolling them under my fingers, wishing we could be skin to
skin.
I want to bite him. I want to lick him, I want to taste his
mouth, his ass, his cock. I want to make him come. I let my
need flow through me and out my hands; in Qui-Gon's gasp, I can
tell that he feels it. His eyes see the world around him once
again.
Our connection tightens. I can almost feel his desire under my
skin. That was what he was feeding into the Force, his love for
his own pain. I take that desire into me and match it to my
own, feeding it back to him through my hands.
He swallows and gasps as I finish rubbing the cream into his
skin, taking care not to touch it myself, stripping my gloves
off carefully in case I needed to use them later. It burns
along the welts, and he yells, deep-throated curses that seem
to shake the room. I can feel him releasing his pleasure in the
force of his voice.
I know they are cries of exhaltation, that his perception of
the room and his place are being driven away. His cock is
weeping, and I'll have to bind it soon. I won't let him come
until I am settled deeply within him.
I can see his trust and love shine through his tears. I knead
my erection through the cloth, not caring that I am seen. I toe
off my ankle-high boots, my hands already at the fastening of
my pants--
I drop my hands and back away, my breathing ragged, blood
pounding in my ears. I can't let my desires push me too hard;
it is getting near the point where I could do anything to him,
and he would not object, not caring if the mission were
fulfilled. I can't let it go that far; I have to stay in
control. At this moment, I must be the master.
Wiping the sweat off of my face, I center myself while his
screams reach a fevered pitch. I want to be worthy of his love.
I stroke the knife-edge, knowing it's finally time. Qui-Gon's
gaze tracks my movements, and at first I'm afraid I've gone too
far; I see no recognition of what the blade means. I tease him
with it, drawing the edge along his cheek and neck, pricking
the base of his throat until a red dot forms. He gasps and
shudders; I think if I had not bound up his cock, he might have
come.
But I see the flash of recognition. He knows what is coming. He
knows what to do.
Force, how I love him. His chest is red from the beating, the
skin tortured, ready to burst. One small cut....
I trace the edge of the scar with my knife, splitting the skin.
Qui-Gon screams, his body so sensitized by now that he cannot
hold back his physical reactions. He trembles and gasps under
my hands, his mind soaring from the adrenaline rush. Even with
the Force-shield I can feel it -- an animalistic mixture of
pain and lust.
He is so beautiful like this, the patina of Jedi Master
stripped away, leaving the man behind. His hair, hanging around
his face, lush streaks of grey among the dark brown, hides his
expression from me. I push it aside so I can see his eyes.
Sharp and clear still, after everything that I've done. He
almost vibrates with need. I slide my hand down and massage his
cock through its lacings, twisting his balls as I do so,
smiling as I hear him groan.
It is sweet, it is dear, to hear his agony. The tiny voice that
acts as regulator hisses at me, tells me I am getting too
caught up in the moment -- but I don't want to let go. I press
in harder, let him feel my body against his, grinding my cock
against him as he moans, his eyelashes fluttering, no will now
but my own. "Tell me about the scar."
I nip at his skin; he practically vibrates under my hands. The
men viewing the tape will see it as agony. They have no idea
how hard his cock is in my hands. "The scar," I ask again,
twisting harder, watching his eyes roll back into his head
until they are almost white. "Where did you get the scar?"
He is panting and groaning now; I want to fuck him. "Naboo," he
whispers. "I got the scar...in a fight...on Naboo."
The response is perfect. Slow and painfully drawn out, as if he
is ashamed, rather than eager to talk. I release his balls and
pet his hair, feeling Qui-Gon tremble under my hands, letting
my approval show itself in my touch. "It's lovely," I lean down
and lick at the blood that has slid down his chest and pooled
on his belly, waiting for me. It tastes sweet, as sweet as his
pain, as sweet as our love. Tears leak out of the corner of his
closed eyes, and I kiss them away, proud of what he's done.
"That wasn't so bad, was it? The next answer will be easier."
I grab the water from the tray and take a sip, pour it into his
mouth with my own. A little information, a little reward. It's
an old game, but a comfortable one; the watchers know it, as
well. I hold on to him and gaze into his eyes. "We have a lot
of time."
As soon as I can, I have him; I'm sure it looks like rape to
Loquim. I slam into Qui-Gon, moaning as I take him, my pants
barely unfastened, only enough that I can pull my cock out. I
thrust in, covering as much of Qui-Gon as I can with my body,
protecting him from prying eyes. They can't see what I see,
feel what I feel; they have no way to understand. Even the
clothing I wear is almost too much between us, but I have to
keep it in place.
I'm afraid I will forget who I am supposed to be and become
Obi-Wan once again. And then we would both probably die.
I bite into his neck as I pulse into him, his voice the only
sound in the room. Qui-Gon shudders beneath me, his pleasure a
reflection of my own. Even with a hundred languages to draw
from, I have no words to describe what it feels like to be part
of him right now.
We have only the moment.
By the time we are through, there is enough on the security
tape to convince anyone that the information is real. Qui-Gon
is sleeping at last, completely exhausted. I still feel strung
out, my own orgasm doing nothing to calm me, adrenaline pinging
around me like a caged merbat, and I curse the Council all the
while.
I'd taken Qui-Gon further into himself for them than I ever had
before, and now all I want to do is take care of him and see
that he is all right. But with my current role, I can't do
that. I have no time to be lover' I haveto get rid of the
information first.
And then...then...I will find some way to take him with me when
I leave. I can't leave anything as precious as Qui-Gon in that
bastard regent's hands.
I press the communicator button to let them know I am ready. I
am fastening the last of the buttons on my black trousers when
I hear them outside the door. I pull on my boots and meet
Loquim and his guards at the door.
None of them will look at me.
I hold out the tape, and Loquim takes it carefully, as if
touching my hands might soil him. He nods to the guards to go
inside, and I slam my arms in front of them, blocking the
entrance.
"No," I snarl, more Inquisitor than Jedi. "Your sister said I
could name my price when I was done. I want the prisoner."
At that, Loquim finally glances at me, his brown eyes wide with
shock. "But he's a Jedi--"
"He is mine."
The guards shift nervously, looking at one another. I don't
need the Force to know what they are thinking. They'd seen the
tape, seen what I'd done, how I'd cut into Qui-Gon and enjoyed
making him bleed.
I'm a sadistic bastard -- that's what they think, and they are
right. That's why the Council chose me for this job.
I stare at him, and at last, Loquim looks away. "Take him," he
whispers. "He's yours."
I motion the guards in and tell them to be careful as they walk
Qui-Gon out to my cruiser. Loquim watches in stony silence and
follows us out of the hall, his eyes focused on the cuts,
scrapes, welts, and bruises that cover Qui-Gon's body, the way
he sags against the guards, the way he limps as he walks.
I get Qui-Gon settled, and right before I get in, Loquim grabs
my arm. "You had better hope my sister wins the throne,
Inquisitor, because if she loses, I will find a way to take the
throne myself. And there will be no Inquisitors under my
reign."
"For her to lose, the information would have to be false." I
shake off his arm; I need to get Qui-Gon to safety. "At your
leave, your highness."
He grimaces, looking at the cruiser like it leaves a bad taste
in his mouth. "Get out of my sight."
With a polite bow, I do, our mission accomplished.
Qui-Gon is barely awake as I crawl into the cruiser; he smiles
at me as I settle in to drive. "It was good," he says softly,
squeezing my thigh, reassuring me, his voice ragged, rough from
screaming. "I knew I could trust you."
I swallow and nod, fastening my safety harness; he places his
hand on mine, and I can see where his wrist is torn from the
manacles. I tremble at his touch, tension I didn't even know I
carried shuddering through my body. I start gasping; I can't
breath.
Qui-Gon's voice sooths me, "I am proud of you, Obi-Wan. You did
well." His hand moves to my cheek now and touches me, wiping
away a small tear I didn't even realize I'd shed. "You did not
fail. Darkness did not overtake us. Release your fears into the
Force."
It is as if I am a Padawan once again, and I am wrapped in
blanket of Qui-Gon's approval and love. I center myself, and my
breathing instantly eases. "I was afraid for you. I was afraid
I would lose control."
"I share your fear. I was afraid I would fail you, and put both
of us at risk."
"I release my fear into the Force." We spoke the words
together, balancing our desires with our fears, just as we had
in the interrogation room, power and trust together, a unified
force.
The tension eases, and I realize that with the Force-shield on,
I'd absorbed everything we did emotionally into myself. I turn
to Qui-Gon to thank him for helping me; I will do more
meditation later. He seems paler now than when I first entered
the cruiser. He must have used up the last of his energy
helping me.
I lean over and kiss him, our lips gently caressing one
another, intimate and familiar. Pulling back I run my finger
over his cracked and parched lips. "Let me take you someplace
with warm water and clean sheets, and I'll show you how good it
can be."
"I do not think I am the only one in need of such comforts. We
will have to care for each other, I think." His head sinks back
against the headrest, as if he can't hold up the weight. "I am
afraid I will have to rest before we can do much." He blinks
wearily at me and sighs. "And eat...and a bath...." His voice
drifts off.
"Yes, Master." I reply, my response automatic. As I start the
cruiser, I whisper, "You will always be my master."
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