Series: Fifth in the "Colours" series, after "Blue", "Red",
"Green", and "Yellow".
Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at:
http://www.geocities.com/soho/studios/1126/
Rating: NC-17.
Warning: I'm running out of descriptors for this. Implied slash
(m/m) content, violence/pain warning. Very *dark*.
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 takes the true measure of his reward.
{Should I confess how delighted I am when writing these
stories, or would that only confuse things more? I'm using
"Purple" instead of "Violet" because purple *feels* more to me,
you know?}
"Purple"
by MonaR.
monaram@yahoo.com
It's still warm.
I've kept it with me ever since I received it, always somewhere
on my body. It's in my pocket right now; I can feel it through
the thin cloth of my trousers. There must be something of the
Force in that tiny credit - I wish I could ask Master Yoda
about it, but I have to bite my tongue very hard not to blurt
out my many truths around him, and I cannot tell him this one.
It is mine, my own; I have not even told my own Master of my
success, and my reward.
I went to his room instead of my own that night, and told him a
hurried tale of lust and my own desperate fucking, leaving out
the part of my payment. I do not know if I pleased him; all of
my thoughts were centered around the coin I held tight in my
fist. He asked me nothing, just dismissed me, and I happily
returned to my room. The door barely closed behind me before I
stripped myself naked, and then I rubbed my body all over with
my achievement, pressing the little bit of alien metal into my
skin, rubbing it over my cock until it hardened, spilling my
come over it and licking it clean, sucking it between my teeth.
So warm. It still glows like a beacon. I woke up the next
morning naked and freezing on top of my bed-clothes, exhausted
and sated and desperately, painfully hard yet again. I thought
of seeking out a partner within the Temple - there are many who
watch me with hungry eyes, who would give their place in this
world for the touch of my body - but I was unwilling to share
myself for anything less than I had received the previous
night, and I knew no-one with the money to afford me. I fucked
my own hand in the shower, the credit clenched between my
teeth.
Since then, I could not bear to be parted from that coin; I
carried it with me in my fist for the entire first day, until I
had a round, red welt in the palm of my hand from holding it.
It was only then, wincing at the pain, that I saw the true
beauty of my payment - that it could be both punishment and
reward. I can carry it with me, now, tucked in a pocket or sewn
in my sleeve, for I have pressed it against different parts of
my body, making a series of lovely, perfectly round bruises in
my skin. They are all different ages and colours - the one on
my upper arm is green, the one over my heart yellow, and the
one on my thigh is dark purple. I think that one is my
favourite; I press my fingers against it, gently, just to
re-experience the sharp flicker of pain that skips through my
body. I cannot decide where to bruise next - perhaps my back,
although I'd hate to put it somewhere I cannot see. My loose
tunics and robes are meant to keep the secrets of my body safe
from the others, not myself.
The only thing about these bruises is that they are so
transitory - I know that they will fade, eventually, and I'll
have to start anew. I wish for something that would last - some
mark on my body that would be there forever, that I could
always look at and be reminded of my triumph. Oh, Master, I
wish I could ask you - I know you would help me. But it is too
late for me to admit my lie. I must do this on my own.
**********
There will be hell to pay if anyone finds me before I finish.
I remember, when I was eight or nine, one of the boys two years
older was caught in his room with his 'saber lit. He wasn't
doing anything extreme - just demonstrating some newly-mastered
technique to his friends, showing off, I guess - but he
received the maximum punishment that can be given, the only
time I can ever remember it being handed down at all since I've
been here. I asked him how it had been when it was over, and he
told me he'd nearly gone insane after a week of silent
treatment; two weeks was more than enough to push him over the
edge. Although he tried to stick it out, he was never the same
after that; he left the Temple six months later. He told me
that it wasn't the silence itself that hurt - it was the
crushing wave of disappointment he felt, from the oldest Master
to the youngest babe. That small transgression had crushed his
spirit; he had never been made to believe that he was anything
but precious and gifted, before that.
I'll deal with the silence if this works. I can't believe I
didn't think of it sooner; the answer is so obvious that I'm
ashamed of myself for ignoring it.
One of the girls got hurt today, in the gymnasium; her
partner's 'saber was on the training setting, so she won't
scar, but she had to go to the healers immediately to have the
wound looked after. I've been hit before, myself - it hurts
like hell for about a minute, and then the welt raises. Bacta
takes care of the wound, and the memory of the pain is supposed
to help with your concentration the next time.
I wonder if this pain will be enough.
It's just before evening meal, and the hallways are pretty
full; no-one should hear me before I'm done. I've brought all
the towels from my bath and knotted one to stuff in my mouth,
in case I've miscalculated my own threshold and the pain is too
much for me; I'm not about to bring anyone running by screaming
aloud. I've got the other towels wetted in a bowl of cool
water, and I'm ready. I strip my clothing off and sit on the
bed, my legs spread out in front of me, my soft cock limp in
the chill air. My nipples peak when I shiver, and I long to
touch myself. I wish there could be someone else here, so I
could come while I am doing this, but I will have to wait until
after.
It has to be full setting; I can't chance a lower level not
being strong enough the first time. There are no second
chances, with this. It *has* to be right. I switch my 'saber on
and watch the blue glow with a sort of naive fascination - this
is the weapon of my own making, patterned after my Master's. I
pick up the credit with the tongs I borrowed from the mechanics
lab; it doesn't take long for the blue glow to strike the
green, and from this jarring clash the coin soon glows red from
the heat. I was right about the metal - it's hot, but not hot
enough to melt. Whatever this credit is made of, it's strong.
How appropriate.
I stop and listen, satisfied that no-one's heard me yet; I
switch off my 'saber and let it fall, and then stuff the
knotted towel in my mouth, and quickly bring the brand I have
fashioned down to my thigh. It has to be there, you see -
somewhere it will be seen only by those I wish to see it, only
by my intimates and no others. It hurts, it burns, and I can
smell the stench of burning hair and skin, but I swallow the
pain like gasping air, and release it again, sending it away
from me. I have been taught by my Masters how to deal with pain
very, very well. While I am doing this, my cock hardens and
lengthens down my other thigh, and I grasp myself with my free
hand, stroking myself once, twice. This pleasure distracts me,
though, and I have to let my cock go. I have to focus purely on
the pain; the ecstasy of it can wait.
It takes only seconds for the mark to burn into my skin; the
time feels both shorter to me and much, much longer. I pry the
heated metal away from my thigh and drop the coin into the cool
water, where it sizzles and the glow shifts from red back to
its native green. I take a deep breath before I look at my
handiwork, and gasp with relief that my hand has been steady -
the burn is perfectly round and blistered a dark, angry purple,
but while the skin is swelling it has not broken. It's perfect;
I could have hoped for nothing more. Satisfied and already
half-mad with pleasure, I can finally give my attention back to
my still-hard cock, my wet hand flying over the warm skin. My
come when it shoots strikes the very edge of my wound and the
heat burns me anew. I still have the towel stuffed in my mouth;
I scream into it with complete abandon, tears rolling down my
cheeks, thrusting my cock into my hand.
I cover and re-cover the wound with fresh, wet towels, until I
can bear to move off the bed; then I put a layer of gauze over
it and dress again, making myself walk around my room until I
can do so with no limp in my gait, betraying none of the pain
that is still burning in my thigh. No-one must guess by looking
at me what I have done.
I adjust my clothing in the mirror, pleased by my appearance of
normalcy, when suddenly, I am struck by a wave of panic: what
if my Master suspects what I have done? My body is his; perhaps
I should have gone to him and asked him to mark it for me. Will
he be angry that I have scarred myself without his permission?
It isn't too late for him to leave me, to reject me, to push me
at another Master, one who would not understand this bond that
we share, this hunger that drives us.
I cannot breathe, and fall to my knees, gasping. The panic is
so strong that I am suffocating myself, drowning in my own
sudden despair. I am deafened to my own meditations and
assurances and I am unable to quiet my keening, wounded cries,
even though I know my state will surely bring one of the
Masters to me. They must hear my desperation; everyone must
hear it.
The last thing I am aware of before I black out is the soft
swish of my door opening.
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