Summary: A series of "snapshots". The date listed is the date
the 'snapshot' was written/posted. Each piece is a segment
within the same universe, but they are not in any sort of
order. Each piece stands alone (iow-there are no
"cliffhangers"). The snapshots run the gamut from G to NC17.
Some are several pages long, some only a couple of paragraphs;
some contain smut, many do not; they are different styles with
different voices. Disclaimers: mine they are not, dream a girl
can
September 27, 1999
I slide into their room through the servant's entrance, their
breakfast tray precariously balanced in one hand.
"Hello?" I call softly, but the room is empty. Looking around,
I put the tray down on the small round table by the window and
start to open the curtains. That's when I see them.
They are on the balcony, kneeling side by side, bodies still,
eyes closed. Meditating, I guess. I watch for a few moments; we
know little of the Jedi here and I will have the best gossip in
the servant's hall this night, even if all I can report is that
they are both male. And male they most definitely are.
They are covered only in thin white sleeping pants, their pale
flesh gleaming in the early morning yellowish-pink light of our
two suns. A light breeze blows the bigger one's hair about. He
is the elder of the two -his neat beard and long hair is shot
through with grey and even in repose his face speaks of
experience; the small lines around his eyes make his austere
face seem kind. There is a scar on his back, near his left
shoulder. It looks like the work of a pantal knife, which has a
jagged edge. The two small scars on his left arm look more like
they were from energy weapons. His muscles are well-defined
-even in rest it is clear that this is a warrior's body.
I reluctantly turn my eyes away from him to study the smaller
one, to discover that he too is beautiful to look at. He is
younger. His face, in repose, is smooth, unlined. The muscles
of his chest and back are free of scars and a thin long braid
hangs from behind his right ear, the end of it coming down his
chest past his nipple. The rest of his hair is short and stands
up from his head. In this light I can't tell if it's the colour
of bagga wheat or terra cotta. I could watch them sitting there
all morning, but I must attend to my other duties, besides
their room will tell me more about them than their still
bodies, even if it is their bodies that draw my gaze.
They are neat. There is nothing to pick up off the floor and
their clothes -simple tunics and robes- are neatly folded in
two piles on the dressing table. I am surprised to find that
both beds are still made, but on closer inspection I find that
only one bears my trademark folded back corner on the top left
side. The other has been neatly enough made, but not by me.
So. They only use one bed.
I go back to the table where I've left their breakfast try and
slowly set the food and plates out. I examine them again,
looking for any signs that would betray their sleeping
arrangements; I could well imagine their bodies moving together
and it makes a beautiful picture. But they remain simply side
by side, kneeling and still, bodies close but not touching,
seemingly neither aware of their surroundings, nor each other.
They could be statues.
Disappointed that I have no proof, other than the single used
bed, which could be simply the way of the Jedi, I pick up my
now empty tray. Dipping a finger into the warm custard, I take
a quick, furtive taste of the sweet delicacy and quickly turn
to leave, gasping as I nearly run into the two men who have
silently returned to the room.
"Your breakfast, Sir Lords Jedi. If there is anything else that
you would require...?"
"No, thank you," the older one says as they sit at the table.
His voice is somewhat rougher than the males of my species, but
his lilting accent gives it a light, airy quality.
"Very well. If you need anything you have only to pull the
bell," I tell them, pointing towards the long rope by the
dressing table.
"Thank you." The younger one answers this time and his voice
slides like honey along my ears; it is smooth and warm, holding
within it a hint of mischief and I cannot help but glance at
him. I bow and back away towards the servants door, assuming
that I am dismissed.
I keep my head bowed to hide the small smile I cannot quite
contain. In the juncture where shoulder meets neck, the smooth,
perfect flesh of the younger man is marred by the unmistakable
blemish of a love bite. I shall indeed be very popular in the
servant's hall this night.
September 28, 1999
The balna fruit was as stubborn as the land that reluctantly
grew it. Hard and thorny, the protective shell was as tough as
any Obi-Wan had ever seen on a fruit and you had to be quite
determined to open it. You had to be prepared to accept cuts
and scrapes as their due.
But it was worth it. The fruit itself was the sweetest of
rewards. It was the most delicious food that Obi-Wan had ever
tasted; it's flesh smooth and silky in his mouth, the flavour
sharp and lingering. Much like the people of Balna, he thought
as he contemplated the fruit resting in his hand. Their gruff
exteriors and seemingly harsh attitudes hid a loyal and joyful
people. It was well worth peeling back their layers to find
what lay beneath the surface.
Obi-Wan examined his fruit carefully, searching the prickly
flesh for the seam. Finding it, he pushed both thumbs into it,
wincing as his palms pressed against thorns. He tore the flesh
back, ignoring the sting of the juice as it ran along his
fingers and into the small scrapes. Letting the peel go, he
brought the naked fruit up to his nose and sniffed, enjoying
the pungent aroma.
Finally, he bit into the fruit. It exploded against his teeth
and tongue and gums, his palate drowning in the luscious taste.
The juice ran over his chin, dripping down his neck and into
his tunic. He licked around his mouth luxuriously, tasting both
the sweet juice of the fruit and the salty tang of his own
skin. His eyes drifted closed as he took a second bite.
He stood quietly for several minutes, steadily eating the balna
fruit and lifting his face to catch the final warmth of the
slowly descending sun.
When the fruit was gone he wiped his chin and neck clean and
slowly licked the juices from his sticky fingers. He sucked
hard on his index finger, removing any last trace of the acidic
liquid, soothing the stinging of one particularly nasty
scratch.
"Obi-Wan."
"Coming, Master," he replied immediately, taking a final look
at the large orb that would decorate the sky for only a few
minutes longer
"Are you ready?" Qui-Gon asked. The setting of the sun would
mark the beginning of the fasting for the Festival of Night.
They had participated in other fasting rituals during their
travels together and Qui-Gon knew how much Obi-Wan hated not
being able to eat. He ran a finger along Obi-Wan's collarbone,
raising an eyebrow when it came away sticky, but said nothing.
"Yes, Master, I am ready," replied Obi-Wan. The memory of the
balna fruit, with it's prickly skin and stinging, sticky juices
would fill him for a long time to come.
September 29, 1999
You would not be happy to know I was watching you like this;
that I had removed myself enough from our love-making that I
would not end my night in an orgasm. You would be dismayed that
you had achieved that end on your own. "It's not fair for me to
have all the pleasure" you would tell me, earnestly, when you
had caught your breath once again. Only tonight you will not be
able to speak for a very long time when I have done with you. I
have kept the pace slow and tortuous. I have brought you to the
edge and backed you slowly away again more times than I can
remember; certainly you cannot count that high in your present
state.
Maybe tomorrow I will try to explain to you, once again, that I
find more pleasure in watching your pleasure than in feeling my
own. As if any physical release could compare with the sight of
you in your passion; your body arched, cheeks flushed, mind
flooded with your passion. Your love and pleasure sweep through
our link and I fear I will drown beneath the wave, as I do many
nights and tumble with you over that edge.
I manage to hold fast by the very narrowest of margins and only
because I am motivated to do so. If I cannot stay in control, I
cannot watch you lose control and succumb to the pleasure
igniting your body. A conflagration that *I* have caused.
You cry out -the force flowing through you, adding to the glow
that rises from your skin. You are in my bed. Wanton and naked.
Coming. And, now, sated, boneless, shining...mine.
You tremble with every touch; each soft caress soothing another
twitch from your body, leaving you slightly calmer than before.
You are asleep before your breathing returns to normal. And I
may look my fill.
You accuse me of giving and not taking, but you do not realise
how very selfish I really am. I settle comfortably on my knees
on the bed beside you; wishing already that the night were
longer.
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