From the Temple Erotica Archives I: A Dull Night at Home
by Merri-Todd Webster (lonchura@yahoo.com)
Archive: Master_apprentice only.
Category: Plot-What-Plot, Fetish/Kink
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: No.
Spoilers: Only for my own stories "Sex on the Beach" and "Room
Service," to which this is a sequel.
Summary: Qui-Gon finds a little light reading online while
spending some time home alone.
Feedback: All sorts welcomed, but preferably offlist.
Qui-Gon heard himself sigh and put down the scroll he had been
reading. Why was a high-ranking Jedi Master sitting in his
quarters of an evening, at home in the Temple for once, and
sighing to himself? The answer was simple: His padawan was not
at home with him.
Qui-Gon sighed again and got up to put away the ancient,
hand-written scroll in its protective box. The box went back
into the safe, a small climate-controlled space which held a
few precious artifacts--the braid of his first padawan and his
own padawan lock; some rare scrolls; a fossil from his
homeworld. The truth was, he was lonely--and horny. Jedi
masters were not supposed to be either lonely or horny; they
were supposed to rely on the Force for company. But the company
of the Force was not as satisfying, in the abstract, as it was
embodied in his intelligent, lively, vital--and perpetually
horny--padawan and lover.
The reason they were on Coruscant, however, was that Obi-Wan's
turn for teaching duties had come up. All senior padawans were
required to teach a certain number of course-hours to the
initiates, and Obi-Wan was always in demand to teach languages
and gymnastics when his name came up in the rotation. He had
three sections to teach this time, and he went out every
evening, after dinner, to a friend's quarters or to the
library, in order to do the necessary grading and planning. He
knew as well as Qui-Gon did that the work would not get done if
they were here together; they had become lovers over a year
ago, yet they were still unable to keep their hands off one
another.
The scroll of Master X'w'nor's treatise on meditation safely
stored away, Qui-Gon wandered back out to the common room and
sat down before their terminal. He gazed blankly at the screen
for a moment, then shook his head and logged in to check his
mail. There was nothing but the usual trivia--the next tenday's
menu from the refectory, a note from Yoda complaining about how
his last padawan never visited him any more, and a reprimand
from Mace about Obi-Wan's "seductive behavior, inappropriate to
a Jedi Padawan". Stop watching my padawan's arse, Mace, Qui-Gon
thought--that's my job. All Obi-Wan had to do, ever
since he'd become his master's lover, was walk past Mace Windu,
even with his cloak on and his hood up, and Windu's blood
pressure went up. Not to mention other things....
A vague memory came back to the Jedi master-- something his
padawan had said on their last vacation together, when Obi-Wan
had persuaded his master to use some of his endlessly
accumulated stipend to take them to a luxury hotel with a view.
He'd mentioned there was an archive of erotica on the Temple
library network, and at least one section of it was devoted to
padawans' writings about their masters. Perhaps if he couldn't
have Obi-Wan, at the moment, he could have Obi-Wan's thoughts,
at least.
It proved to be surprisingly easy to get to the erotica
section of the archive. A search on the term "erotica" led him
to a menu that included erotica from a variety of cultures,
some of them long dead now, and erotica written by Jedi. The
menu for erotica written by Jedi was broken into the following
categories:
Masters and Padawans
Interspecies Erotica
Bonded Partners
Males with Males
Males with Females
Females with Females
Other Gender Pairings
Triads
Specificities
Miscellaneous
Qui-Gon blinked. While he was certainly not blind to the power
of erotic love as an aspect of the Force, he had not expected
to find quite so many terabytes devoted to the subject. The
erotica archive was larger, if he remembered correctly, than
the archives devoted to meditation or Jedi protocol. An
exploration of so much new knowledge required a little
fortification.
With a fortifying cup of wine placed near to hand, Qui-Gon
re-settled himself before the terminal, in a more comfortable
chair than the stool he ordinarily kept there, and entered the
section of the archive devoted to masters and padawans.
There were three main subheadings: from largest to smallest,
padawans writing of their masters, masters writing of their
padawans, and collaborative works. Well, the padawan crush was
such a fact of life that it crossed species boundaries; he'd
even heard masters lament that their padawans had never been
properly infatuated with them. There were far more cautionary
tales about masters becoming infatuated with their padawans
than vice versa.
Fortunately, each section of the archive was equipped with a
search function. To his surprise, however, there were no pieces
written by Obi-Wan about his master.
Sipping his wine and dispersing his feeling of hurt into the
Force, Qui-Gon next tried searching the archive for his own
name. He sat up straight when the search yielded half a dozen
pieces written by Xanatos.
Xanatos... even now it was painful to recall his former
padawan's betrayal. It seemed to drive the saber home yet
further to learn that the boy (as Qui-Gon still tended to think
of him) had harbored sexual desires for him. He had never felt
that way about Xan; rather, his feelings for Xanatos had been
overtly parental, perhaps because he himself had discovered the
boy on search and brought the infant back to the Temple. It had
been a fatherly pride, rather than a lover's adoration, that
had blinded him to his apprentice's flaws.
Shaking his head, Qui-Gon exited the search function and began
to browse the archive. He had no desire to read Xan's fantasies
about him... at least, not tonight.
Half an hour's browsing convinced the Jedi master that the
Temple needed to improve its curriculum in the way of languages
and writing skills. Was there something about the topic of sex
that brought out the worst in people's writing? Writing with
one hand only was no excuse for some of the outrages to style
that he had stumbled across, not even for a bimanual species.
His wine cup was half-empty now, and Qui-Gon was growing more
bored and more restless, not less so. Returning to the main
archive menu, he gave in to his curiosity and did a search on
his own name that would cover the entire archive.
The results list was gratifyingly long and pleasantly diverse
as well. There were hits in nearly all the sections of the
archive. If the writing of erotica about a person was
indicative of erotic interest in them, then half the Temple had
been watching his arse for decades. Qui-Gon felt a warm
glow that was less arousal than smugness. Perhaps size
did matter, after all.
He glanced at the time on the monitor. It was getting late,
but he did not expect Obi-Wan to return for at least another
hour. Humming tunelessly under his breath, he narrowed the
search results by entering his padawan's name as a second
search term.
The results fell in a single area: Specificities.
Five minutes later, Qui-Gon poured himself a second cup of
wine. "Specificities" turned out to be Jedi periphrasis for
what the Coruscant dialect normally called "kinks".
The subsections of the "Specificities" area were numerous.
Bondage. Discipline. Pleasure through Pain. Spanking. Clothing.
Footwear. Hair. Just to name a few. Some of them were things
about which Qui-Gon Jinn had no clue--and even a Jedi
Master is not above feeling a bit humiliated by sexual
ignorance. Especially when he is pushing sixty.
Swallowing his wine with perhaps a bit more muscular force
than was strictly necessary, Qui-Gon ran a search on his name
and his padawan's limited to the Specificities archive. The
number of hits was... staggering. Obi-Wan was apparently, to
use current parlance, a kinky little devil.
There were pieces by Obi-Wan archived in the subsections on
hair, spanking, pleasure toys, and dominance/submission.
Qui-Gon wondered whether Obi-Wan had posted them to these
sections himself, or whether the archive's maintenance programs
sorted materials into appropriate categories. Either way,
someone had found these... predilections to be more significant
than the presence in the stories of a master/padawan pairing.
Qui-Gon topped off his glass of wine and went into the
pleasure toys section as he might have gone into the lair of a
copulating jimithril.
"Oh, master, what a perfect gift! Thank you!"
I take the toy into my hands and turn it over, studying it.
Not a bad choice from a man who once gave me a rock for my
birthday. It is a whip. A rather small and modest whip, its
lashes a bundle of suede strands only a little longer than my
hand. A soft and gentle whip, really, but with a cunningly
fashioned handle, sculpted in the shape of a human penis. It is
perfect in every detail, as smooth as Borovian silkstone, and
warms rapidly in my hand.
"I thought you would enjoy it, Obi-Wan. The sight of it...
fired my imagination."
That isn't all it fired, I daresay. My master's erection is
visible even through the endless layers of his Jedi habit. My
own erection is less visible, but no less present and
demanding.
"Indeed, master." I flash him my best wanton-padawan grin.
"Would you care to tell me what you were imagining?"
He takes a deep breath that is almost a gasp. "That might be
pleasurable, Obi-Wan, but not so pleasurable as... showing
you."
A few minutes later, I am bent over the handily proportioned
sink in our refresher, quite naked. The conveniently placed
full-length mirror to my right shows me (as if I needed to be
shown) that I have a full, throbbing, respectable erection
already moist at the tip. (I am well-endowed for a man
of my height and build.) It also shows me my master, who, with
his usual tantalizing style, has stripped down to his leggings,
showing off his splendid shoulders and chest but still partly
concealing his cock--which, despite my considerable assets, is
about twice the size of mine.
The dildo-whip is in his hand.
He trails the whip down my spine, swerving from one side to
the other, not quite tickling. The strands are as soft as an
infant's fingers, as caressing as a light spring rain on
Alderaan. He brushes them back and forth across my buttocks,
teases the back of my scrotum and the insides of my thighs.
I could see the strokes coming, if I wanted to, but I'd rather
not. Anticipation is part of the thrill. I bow my head onto my
folded arms, and it is then, of course, that the first
stroke hits my buttocks with a wonderful sweet sting. It is
painful yet not painful, and my hips twitch in response.
"Ah, Obi-Wan...."
I can tell by the huskiness of his voice that I have roused my
master further just by that minimal motion. I can't wait until
he really gets going--we're both going to love it. I hear the
swish of the leather strands and the whip strikes again, and
again, a quick lash to each buttock. The man is utterly fixated
on my arse. Thank the Force....
I spread my legs a little further apart and arch my back,
wiggling invitingly. I'm sure he can see my anus now. "Please,
master-- don't tease--"
The strokes come steadily now, swish swish swish, each one
both pleasure and pain, like a biting kiss, oh, better than
spanking. I hear myself moaning, rock under the blows; my cock
leaps against my belly, and as my own skin heats up, I can feel
Qui-Gon's heat rising, too, the heat and the scent of him all I
can feel as he whips me. I am awed by how completely he is
giving me what I didn't know I wanted.
"Ah!"
I cry out when his hand, so warm, unexpectedly replaces the
leather. "Your skin is red, Obi-Wan," my cock twitches
pleadingly at the sound of that deep chest-voice, "hot, your
skin is hot. I don't want to hurt you, beloved...."
"You haven't, master." I gasp for breath, turn my head so that
he can see my face in the mirror. "More, please."
He turns away, but only to open a cabinet set flush into the
wall. I bite my lip as I watch him take out the jar of Pleasure
Liquid, break it open, and smear the thick, creamy stuff over
the sculpted handle of the whip. Oh, yes, yes yes yes.... He
turns to me again, a dollop of the lubricant on one fingertip.
"Beautiful padawan...."
The coolness of the lubricant on my hot skin is a sting almost
as sweet as the touch of the leather. Qui-Gon uses his finger
to stretch me just a bit, not penetrating yet, knowing I can
take the dildo with only a minimum of preparation. Yet he
prolongs the process, taking his hand away only when I'm close
to sobbing with need.
I ease my feet apart even further and turn my head again to
watch what's happening in the mirror. Qui-Gon sets the head of
the dildo against my anus and begins to press it in. I groan as
the ring of muscle stretches further, yielding to the dildo, to
the gentle yet inexorable pressure behind it. The mirror allows
me to see the exquisitely sculpted phallus, a rich purple in
hue, disappearing between the white curves of my arse.
When it is all the way inside me, my master steps back for a
moment. I clutch at the dildo with my muscles, holding it
within me; in the mirror, it looks almost as if I've sprouted a
tail. I can tell by the look on my master's face that he's
studying the picture I present, admiring the view.
He says nothing, however. He only meets my eyes in the mirror,
heat answering heat, and then takes hold of the dildo and then
begins to fuck me with it.
It's a curious sensation, being penetrated with a dildo.
Nothing you do can make it yield; your responses will not
affect it. It becomes as hot as your own body, but no hotter;
even when wielded by one's own hand, much more in the hand of a
lover, it seems strangely impersonal. I feel myself at its
mercy, not the mercy of my master, my lover, who is always
sensitive to my needs, but at the mercy of this insentient
thing, as if it moved on its own power.
It is a curious sensation, and I love it. I squirm against it,
buck against it, clutch it with my muscles-- it does not yield,
and I do not come. I have only come once from penetration,
without any stimulation of my cock, and it was not from a
dildo. I know the dildo will not suffice, no matter how wild it
drives me--and I am so wild by this point, I can barely keep a
grasp on the sink to anchor myself. Qui-Gon will go on until I
ask him to stop, tirelessly, tireless in seeking my pleasure.
"Master--"
As soon as I can get the word out, the dildo is removed,
slowly, gently. And then Qui-Gon's leggings seem to disappear,
as they always seem to, and he is thrusting inside me.
So hot, and so much bigger than the dildo. So good. One arm
comes around, one hand spreads out against my chest, and he
straightens up, almost lifting me off my feet--showing off, as
always. But I feel only gratitude as his other hand curls
around my cock.
"Master...."
It doesn't take long, for either of us. My ejaculation
spatters the basin, the fixtures, even the mirror above the
sink. I go limp in Qui-Gon's grasp as he finishes; he sinks to
his knees, taking me with him, and I feel his semen begin to
trickle out of me.
"Master--"
The wine cup went flying out of Qui-Gon's hand, over his
shoulder. He turned just in time to see it bounce off his
padawan's chest, fall to the floor, and roll away. Obi-Wan was
standing just behind him, quite close enough to have been
reading over his shoulder.
"Master...." One corner of Obi-Wan's mouth quirked up, despite
the wine stain that was now spreading down his off-white tunic.
"Was it the one with the dildo-whip, or the one with the
spanking?"
"Spa...." Qui-Gon wished ardently for more wine.
"Ah, then it was the one with the dildo-whip." The other
corner of Obi-Wan's mouth lifted, and his tongue darted out to
moisten his lips. "Did you like that idea, master?"
"It was... quite inventive, padawan."
"Oh, not really, master." Obi-Wan began unwrapping his sash
and stripping away his soiled tunic. "All I had to invent was
the scenario, and that was quite easy and logical."
Qui-Gon Jinn was a Jedi Master, a skilled diplomat as well as
a warrior. He was never slow to grasp implications, no matter
how complex the situation. "Do you mean to say that you... have
seen such an implement, padawan?"
Obi-Wan was now down to his leggings. "I mean I own
one, Qui." He bent over, smiling wickedly, until he was
nose-to-nose with his master. "Race you to the bathroom."
Archive 