Note: Un-beta-ed. All errors are mine. A response to Jade's
request for more masturbation fics. Hope this helps!
I love to watch my lover pleasure himself. We've been lovers
for a few years, and still seeing my young partner bring
himself to completion gives me pleasure. Maybe it's the age
difference between us; my apprentice is a young man and so is
able to go more rounds than I at any given time. His
self-gratification often becomes our foreplay.
I think there's a bit of an exhibitionist in my Obi-Wan. He
enjoys putting on a show for me as much as I like to
watch.
He starts by removing his tunics, one by one, in a manner that
is completely sensual, but not tawdry or overdone. His lithe
compact body makes every movement part of a dance, one for my
eyes-only. His hands wander his bare chest, fingers teasing,
skirting the toned muscles, dancing over the supple creamy
skin. He gasps softly as his hands move over his nipples,
kneading, dusting, skirting the dusky flesh into hardened nubs.
His eyes fall half closed, his breath comes at a shorter, more
ragged pace as he continues.
His hands wander down his torso, tracing scars, old and new,
gained in training and in combat. So many fewer than those that
mar my body. Oh, that nothing but my mark blemish that body. I
know it's not to be; such is the life we lead.
His hands move lower until they dip into the waistband of his
pants. One hand slips inside, roaming, teasing, while the other
drifts back up to his nipples. The hand on his breast drifts
back down, and he slowly draws off his trousers, carefully,
freeing his straining erection. A twitch of slim hips and the
pants are around his knees, then ankles. Well-muscled legs step
or kick out of the confines of the material, depending on his
position.
Sometimes he kneels before more at this point, naked and
gloriously erect. Other times, he'll recline on our large bed
next to me, so close I can feel the heat roiling off his body,
smell the heady scent of his musk.
His hands continue to roam his body. Those hands, smaller than
mine, yet still powerful in their own right. I've seen those
hands wield a lightsaber, and tend a raging fever with strength
and compassion. Those hands are capable of death, yet can make
me scream his name with deft, tender touches.
One hand curls around his erection, a thumb swirling the head,
rubbing the leaking fluid over his length. The other hand
alternates between his nipples, sometimes drawing the tail of
his braid over the hardened nubs, gasping at the sensations.
His breathing becomes more rapid, and a sheen of sweat breaks
out all over that beautiful body as he begins to stroke
himself.
Slow long strokes gradually give way to more urgent, harder
pulls, giving in to the desire for completion. Abandoning his
nipples, his other hand moves downward to join its partner,
caressing and squeezing his testicles. Thrusts of the slim hips
encourage a more furious pumping, and soon his hand is moving
at an almost blurring pace.
With a sigh, grunt, or brief shout, my Obi-Wan comes, with my
name on his lips, even though it was he who brought himself to
completion.
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