~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone hates your job. Your friends call it degrading. Your brother calls it disgusting. Your mother doesn't say anything, just buries her head in her hands, trying to disapprove and not really succeeding. You don't mind. The money is fabulous. And you love your work.

Especially when there's Jedi in the house.

You see one walk in doing a good job of being unobtrusive in his regular clothes, but you grew up on Courscant, within spitting distance of the Temple itself, and you know what that braid means. You grin around your fresh makeup as you shimmy into your work outfit; silver armlets, bracelets, anklets, and choker, white G-string and halter top, white satiny spike heels that add to your height considerably. And over it all, a sleeveless dress hemmed at midthigh, silver-white, filmy, insubstantial, the mists of clouds. A man could read the classified ads through it, although with you in it, business is usually the last thing on any male mind. That's your job.

You shiver in delight. This is your wine, your pleasure, making men want you, making them ache, gently, firmly denying them, letting them twist on a rack built from their own lust. Privately you know when to give and when to take, letting men have their way when things get beyond a certain point. At work though . . . it's legal and encouraged to drive them mad. It's a feeling of power.

You stride out on the raised dais of a stage as the crowd roars; with three other dancers, you start together, twining your limbs together, a shining, fantastic menagerie. Newcomers always comment on how well-behaved the audience is; no vulgarities and only a few whistles and catcalls. That's partly due to the enormous Gammorians you boss employs as bouncers, but not entirely; once the dance starts, most men you've seen forget things like language.

The four of you split into pairs, flowing downstage right and left, allowing the slackjawed men a slightly better, more intimate view. You school your face into a droopy lidded half frown of passion as your partner's hands drift over you. Across the way, on an identical dais, a quartet of men mirror the women's movements, driving the female audience out of their minds.

Chi, your current dance partner and dear friend, whispers, *sotto voce*, lips still and pursed in a sultry half-pout, "Uh-oh, Jedi in the house."

"He's mine," you whisper, your face just as still and your voice just as low. It's hilarious what conversations dancers can have during a number so long as they keep their voices down and their expressions blank. On occasion, you've had to bite the insides of your cheeks hard enough to bruise, just to keep from laughing your fool head off onstage.

"I know!" she shoots back as your hand briefly creeps up her thigh and retreats.

You grin. You have automatic dibs on Jedi, since you're so accommodating in all the other aspects of this job. "Who's your mark?" you whisper as she guides you through a spreadeagled cartwheel, offering the hungry men a clear view of your legs, ass, and crotch.

"That tall drink of water, three from line stage center."

You glance at the fellow sitting in the chair she's just named. "Not bad, not bad." As you lean back, you skate your eyes over the crowd and rest them, for a mere heartbeat, on the Jedi. He swallows under your smoking look.

"Ten creds says he has to use the 'fresher when I'm done," you purr to Chi as she arches over your knee.

"The Jedi? Get real. Ten creds says *mine* does," she breathes into your ear.

"Ten creds, first one to retreat and jerk off wins," you compromise.

"Oh sure, like they're both just going to get up and *run* for it when we're through," she snorts.

"Chi," you sigh, "they're men."

You run through the rest of the routine with Chi, and with artful hesitant parting glances, you separate, moving down the stage and into the audience. In most other establishments featuring mostly naked dancers, the crowd would be grabbing, leering, copping feels and yelling vulgar endearments. Not this one. You and your colleagues know how to control an audience.

You prance through the crowd, offering teasing half-touches and almost looks to the awestruck males. Many are married, most have lady friends. None of them matter now. For right now, you are their goddess, beautiful, desirable, and completely untouchable.

And all the while, you're stealing tiny, sipping glances at the Jedi. Unsurprisingly, he's conducting himself with a little more dignity then most of his fellow men, but the tips of his ears are flaming. And he won't look right at you, employing your method of darting half-glances.

All right, time to up the ante a little.

You sidle over to him, using long, flowing strides that proudly display your muscled legs. You give him plenty of both time and space to study you, the pull of muscles under your skin, the light sheen of sweat, the subdued light bouncing off your accessories, the flimsiness of your short gown, and the shape of your practically nothing outfit underneath.

His jaw slackens a little and his eyes haze. You come closer, circling like a sandtiger around stricken prey, examining him as you come inside his personal space. By the suns he's handsome.

You look him over closely, making him feel as naked as you are. Ever methodical, you start with his hair. Ginger gold, shorn about two centimeters from his scalp, except for the paintbrushy tail in back and the Padawan braid hanging from his right temple, it glows, even in the faint light. You wonder, is it soft? bristly? a little of both? How would it feel, tickling your hands?

Your gaze moves over his ears (the only part of him that's blushing, for the moment) to the angle of his jaw, following it like a river to his lips. Thin lips, but full, and no doubt very soft. Maybe the only soft thing about him.

His face . . . now you wish you were a poet instead of a dancer. The smooth skin (he probably isn't shaving daily yet, although you peg his age at late teens, maybe twenties), gracefully swept eyebrows, and full lips, conspire to make him look effeminate, yet their conspiracy is broken by his hard jaw, broad nose, and frown lines. Odd to see a face so young with frown lines. Did he ever smile, this Jedi? Laugh maybe? He must. He's got dimples! How his childhood peers must've taunted him for that. You smile at him, flashing your own dimples, as your eyes move down.

You send a brief prayer to whatever god watches over professional teases that he's not wearing the full robe tunic trousers ensemble. Instead he's wearing a perfectly ordinary short-sleeved shirt and snug trousers, outlining and accenting his warrior's body. Muscles stretch easily, tightly, over a solid frame, with a sinewyness that suggests use, use outside mere exercise. Does he dance, you wonder? The suns know he has the body for it, well balanced, with compact grace. You swallow at the thought of him lifting you into an arabesque and setting you down again, light as a feather. You feel his stare crawling over you like warm oil, tracing with his eyes where he would touch you, were he free to.

With a little toss of your hair, you kick one leg over the Jedi's lap, resting your hands on the chair back, surrounding him. He's so close now; you can feel the lust pouring out of him, a psychic scent that makes your heart shiver, your guts itch.

You sway, moving your hips in little swings over his clenched thighs. His arms twitch, wanting to slide over your legs and jerk you down onto his lap. A Jedi and a gentleman to the marrow, he won't let them. What would this man do, you wonder, if you nodded and let him have his way? Tear your dress aside, plant those lips on your belly, your breasts, your throat? Move his hands over your back? Throw you to the floor and fuck you right then and there?

He gulps and blushes, still not meeting your eyes. You smile gently and trace your finger along the side of his jaw, not touching, but oh so close. His head follows your directing and you meet his eyes full-on.

And almost forget the dance.

You know the color; your uncle has it too; that wonderful stormy sea blue-gray, with a ring of yellow framing his wide pupils. For the sake of simplicity, the law calls his eyes blue, but there's so much more to be had, depending on what colors surround him, and the emotions within him. All find their reflections in his eyes.

Right now, he's nearly mad with simple physical desire. You know that haze as well as your own first name. The only thing keeping him from snatching you off the floor and claiming you with his kisses and his body is equally simple Jedi restraint. Restraint that's cracking under your heated gaze and your erotic motions.

You should feel triumphant; mission accomplished. And you do, but you're scared too. Deeply scared and you swallow, the power you have over him slipping away. Ordinarily this man is likely nobility incarnate, but you're not dealing with the man. You're dealing with his lust, and lust has powers that shatter worlds. Lust can also smell fear.

You hear the last portion of the music begin and you move away, relieved. Only the gods really know what would've happened if you'd stayed one more second. You stride back up to the stage, rejoining your fellow dancers, hands upstretched to a common point in the heavens as you all walk backstage, riding a thunderous tide of applause.

When you reach the sanctuary of backstage, you collapse into a chair, breathing hard, gathering yourself. Chi leans over you, concerned. "You all right?"

"Yeah," you reassure, your inner balance back. Why were you scared anyway? You had him in the palm of your hand the whole time.

Out of mean, spiteful habit, you all peek out of the curtain's heavy folds, watching couples rejoin for a night together, and watching the unattached either trying to *become* attached (pun unintended) or simply running for the 'fresher to relieve themselves. You seek out the Jedi and your eyes lock with his. He can't see you; you know that intellectually, but there's nothing intellectual about his reaction. As though that one little glance snapped some last shred of dignity, he bolts up from his chair and hotfoots it to the men's 'fresher.

You stifle a giggle. Victory!

"Uh-oh, looka there," Chi coos, pointing.

Now you giggle as you watch the man Chi spent her time teasing heading for the 'fresher too, not hurrying, but certainly not wasting his time about it.

"Mine cracked first. That's ten credits, sister mine," you caw.

"I don't recall a bet being made," she points out icily.

"Silence is consent."

"Only in sex and parenting."

"Oh zark off and gimme the money," you grumble, but you smile. Damn you love your job.

Back to BJ's Stories!