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

There are times when it's fun to have an aunt who's never home, you think as you whistle happily in her house. Her large, secluded, absolutely empty house. Your home, by contrast, is a tiny, eight-by-ten hovel with a shared kitchen, and more importantly, a shared bathroom. Two whole days of glorious solitude until your cousin gets back from vacation. Just you, your CD collection, cable TV, an Internet computer, and enough cold Mountain Dew and frozen pizza to last a week.

And the hottub. Mustn't forget the hottub.

You unpack your things, watch a little TV, read some of your list mail. Until night, when the rain cascades down the windows and your body begs for music. All right, time to quit fucking around, you think as you strip out of your clothes and put on the midnight blue bikini you never wear in public due to your appendix scar. Standing in the middle of the living room, you set aside your glasses, push a button on the remote, wait for four beats, and start thrashing as "Creeping Death" roars out of the speakers.

You continue for about an hour, reveling in the freedom to have the stereo up loud enough to shake the walls and to mosh around in your underwear whenever you please. You pause as a familiar riff tickles at your ears. As the immortal Hendrix roars out "Foxy Lady," you stop thrashing and start swaying, moving your body in smooth, salacious jerks, kicking your bare legs high, running your hands over your body, imagining a certain pair of reputably large male hands under yours, pressing and stroking in all the right places.

As the song ends, you stand for a moment, catching your breath. On that note . . . You grab your portable stereo and a bag full of stuff, retrieve your glasses, wrap yourself in a dark blue dressing gown, and head for the hottub.

Installed mostly as a therapeutic measure for your aunt's back problems, the tub's about three feet deep, six feet wide, and eight feet long, set into the floor of an alcove apart from the bathroom with it's more mundane shower. The alcove is tiled in blue to match the tub, with a large picture window showcasing the backyard. The tub's sides are studded with ten jets, and the jets come with three speeds; high, really high, and almost orgasmic.

You start filling the tub, set the stereo on a shelf, light the candelabra by the window, and pop in a tape of slow music, stuff for when you're in a pensive mood; a little Doors, "Stairway to Heaven," two Hendrix tracks, a little Metallica, some Guns'n'Roses, and a little Silver Bullet Band just to round out the mix.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, scrubbing your face free of makeup and sweat. You run a hairbrush briskly through your short hair. After a moment, your strokes slow, and you simply stand there, enjoying the feel of the bristles massaging your scalp.

The familiar opening piano of "We've Got Tonight" stirs the air. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the gentle music soothe you, until you remember two base facts:

Fact: You didn't turn the stereo on.

Inference: Someone else did.

Fact: You're the only one here.

Barring poltergeists . . .

Conclusion: There's someone else in the house!

Your lethargy snaps like green twigs. Your heart pounding, you grab your aunt's heavy, silver-backed hand mirror and stalk slowly into the tub alcove, glancing about nervously.

If Dom DeLuise jumps out and howls, "Smile! You're on Candid Camera!" I swear, I'll take him apart with a blunt spork! you snarl to yourself. After assuring yourself that the alcove is empty, you glare out the window. The huge halogen lamp mounted to the back of the garage bathes the backyard in shifting silver-blue light. You don't see anything, but with the rain coming down in sheets, that doesn't mean anything.

"Jesus Christ, I'm losing my mind," you mutter as you turn from the window.

All you see is a large shadow standing near you. Your instincts kick in, bringing your hand, weighted with it's silver and glass cargo, around with all the leverage you can muster.

A large, callused hand, tendons spun from iron, grabs your wrist and it's mate takes the mirror from your grasp.

You try to jerk your wrist from the stranger's adamantine grip. In the process, you finally look up (*way* up) into his face, and your heart slams against your ribcage. *Hard.*

The intruder in your aunt's home is none other than the Master himself.

"Holy shit!" you blurt, John Belushi style.

"Hardly," Qui-Gon Jinn replies, nonchalant. Apparently, this is the sort of reaction he's used to.

You just stand there, jaw agape, staring at him, memorizing the way his face moves when he breathes. He stares back down at you, though what he's looking for and judging you have no idea.

Apparently deciding you are no longer a threat, he asks in a tone of polite, impersonal conversation, "Is Janie around?"

You stand dumbstruck for another second until your inborn sense of manners takes over. "Aunt Jane? She's out of town. I'm just keeping house." Although it's curious; no one but your mother and other aunts call her Janie.

"Your aunt and I are acquainted, yes," he responds, letting go of your wrist and setting the mirror down. "She lets me use her home occasionally." He frowns. "She must not have received my message."

His voice reminds you of hot fudge, and you have to be quick to slap a lid on the thoughts *that* brings up. "That's Aunt Jane all right," you say shakily. "She's got a doctorate in Phone Tag." Grousing about your family isn't doing jack for your inner balance, but right now it's any port in a storm.

He gives you a concerned look that makes you shiver. "I should leave."

"Oh no," you say quickly, not wanting to put him through any more inconvenience.

Besides, there's just some opportunities one simply doesn't pass up.

He smiles and you blush. "If you'll excuse me."

The moment he moves out of eyeshot, you lean your head into the window, hoping it's rain-cooled surface might do the same for your flaming face. You're more embarrassed then you've ever been in your entire life. The Powers that Be have dropped a perfectly charming gentleman in your lap and all you can think about is tearing his clothes off. Behave yourself for Christ's sake! He knows what you're thinking!

Your hands shaking like you've got chills, you snap off the stereo and pull a cover over the now-full and unbearably inviting hottub. Steeling yourself (and wishing you had more on than a slinky blue robe, even if it is floor length), you head to the kitchen, where the Jedi Master waits.

"Could I get you something to drink?" you ask, avoiding his eyes.

"No thank you. I already have something," he replies, handing you a can of Mountain Dew.

You wrap your trembly fingers about the cold aluminum. Still flailing for equilibrium, you fall back on what little you remember of your mother's good hostess lessons. "Here let me take your cloak."

"No thank you," he repeats. "It's a little chilly in here."

"Really? I didn't notice," you quip. Which is true; in the state you're in, Antarctica wouldn't be chilly.

He cuts loose with an unbearably sexy smile. You shit! You're enjoying this! your mind accuses before you can censor it.

"I am," he replies, a dead serious look replacing the smile. "Your company, not your discomfort. Your aunt's shown me some of your work . . ."

"*She WHAT*?!?!?" you demand, slamming down the pop can. You write, on and off; essays, short stories, and slices-of-life; a habit left over from 12th grade AP English. You've shown a lot of your stuff to your aunt (no smut, thank God, but dammit, it's still private!). She praised it lavishly and promised to keep it secret.

She *promised* your betrayed heart cries. *PROMISED!!!*

In a heartbeat, Qui-Gon has you in a rough hug, holding you firm as you struggle, just wanting to run somewhere and cry.

You quit, weeping bitterly into his shoulder. He strokes your hair until you calm down. He tips your chin up and catches you in his dark blue eyes. "Listen to me; you write wonderfully. It's a privilege to finally meet you." He grins. "Even if I had to disarm you in the process."

You laugh weakly, mortified again.

"And your aunt betrayed no confidence. She left one of your essays on the dining table and I glanced over it." His gaze goes inward. "She caught me looking and told me off."

You nod, relaxing a little in his arms.

"I wanted more, and I had to do some fairly serious persuading before she showed me your portfolio."

"What sort of persuading?" you ask curiously, expecting a real-life demonstration of the famed Jedi Mind Trick.

He settles his mouth on yours, a simple, chaste, incredibly intimate kiss. Your heartrate hope nimbly into the stratosphere as hot and cold chills chase each other under your skin.

His lips open, stroking against yours, coaxing your tongue out of your mouth and into his. The wiry hair of his beard and mustache scrape and rasp lightly against your face. Your arms creep around his neck and shoulders, locking there like steel belts.

His hands lock like a girdle of fire around your waist, lifting you slightly. He turns a bit and deposits you on the kitchen counter, his tongue still locked in your mouth. You open your knees, squeezing his stone waist between your thighs through the fabric of your robes.

He breaks the kiss, letting you catch your breath. "That sort."

It takes you a moment to remember what he means, then you decide you don't really give a shit and you grab his head, planting your lips possessively on his, desperate to blow through his Jedi cool.

He kisses with you for a minute or so, and pulls away with a smile. "Not here and not now, sweetheart." Before you can scrape together a reply, he pulls you off the counter, sweeps one arm behind your knees, gathers you in his arms, and strides--where else?--to the bathroom, where the hottub still waits.

He sets you back on your feet and opens his cloak. Your jaw drops as you see a pair of black swim trunks and an awful lot of skin, stretched easily over hard-used muscles, peppered here and there with dark brown hair. You frantically search for a safe place to rest your googoo eyes. Down, you're confronted with the area covered by the trunks and you're seized with a desire to tear them aside with your bare hands. Eye level presents his chest, which you want to start licking like a Tootsie pop. Up rest his eyes, and you're not sure *what* you'll do when you see his eyes.

His hands, every bit as large as reputed, gently remove your glasses, closing them and setting them aside. The world retreats into maddening, romantic fuzz. A concentrated stare flips the stereo back on, and the bittersweet opening of "Stairway to Heaven" echoes through the alcove.

His fingers move to the belt of your dressing gown, untying the belt slowly, sliding it off your shoulders to droop to the floor, revealing your bikini. Your emphatically FM bikini.

Reality dashes over you like a bucket of ice water and you back off. "Hold it."

Honest consternation makes him even more handsome, if that's even possible. "What is it?"

"You come here, you don't even *knock*, you're not even decent for Christ's sake!" you babble, last-minute doubts crawling up your throat.

He drops his cloak, baring his arms and shoulders and crosses his arms across his chest, so self-assured it's sickening. "Come here."

You lock your eyes with his. "No I don't think so."

Are you NUTS?!?!? your body demands, whimpering for his touch.

He stands there, his stance softening, patient, and you realize you've reached the fabled point-of-no-return. Confusion, reason fighting lust, clouds your mind.

How, exactly, do you explain vulnerability to an invulnerable man? How do you explain that you know you're playing with fire and you just don't want to burn yourself trying to get warm?

How do you explain that you don't want to get hurt?

How do you explain trust?

>> Tell me.<<

You jerk a little when you recognize Qui-Gon's voice in your mind. Not probing, just asking.

You let him see.

Before you know it you're enfolded in his arms again, his hands running over your bare back. "I will never hurt you. I promise," he says softly.

He means it.

You tilt your face up to receive his kiss, stretching your body along his to meet his height, savoring the feel of his skin on yours. You feel his cock stiffen under your hips. A flare of apprehension, Christ he's big! settles into the stew of feelings brewing in your gut.

He breaks away, rising back to his full height. Taking your hand, you walk together to the hottub.

He steps in carefully, letting out a little "Ah!" noise as his feet sink in the steaming, and for now, still, water. You follow suit, sighing as the water envelopes your feet and lower legs in warmth.

He turns back to you, kneeling before you in the warm water, pushing you back so you sit on the floor next to the tub, your feet dangling down into the water.

His mouth comes down on your neck. You gasp as nibbles gently on your collarbone, scraping the edge of his front teeth over you, brushing his mustache against your skin. The combined sensations of soft lips, bristly hair, and steely teeth make your muscles riot. You work his hair gently out of it's tie and plunge your hands into the strands, delighting in the feel of it between your fingers. I thought is was coarser . . . feels like mine when it was still long.

His nibbles are drifting lower and becoming more urgent. He pauses, waiting until you look down, and runs the tip of his tongue over the upper edge of your bikini top with a gee-ain't-I-a-bad-boy smile that makes you groan. His hands slip down your shoulders and cup your breasts, the calluses deliciously rough even through the material.

You arch into his hands, reason dissolving under his touch. You whimper as he grips your nipples firmly between thumb and forefinger, rolling them just a little, just enough to make you squirm.

He leans you back, but instead of removing your top, he simply starts kissing your bare belly, just underneath your breasts. You moan a little, exasperated sigh and undo your top, letting your breasts swing free. He cheerfully obliges your unspoken request, latching his mouth onto one nipple.

You throw your head back and moan, feeling moisture build up between your legs. One of his hands drops to your crotch, rubbing you with the heel of his hand. You gasp, "Tease . . ."

"No lass," he answers, playful and serious, "just thorough."

With that, he lays you back on the floor. The icy feel of the tiles is a wonderful contrast to the warmth of the water around your lower legs, and the fire of his hands and mouth.

He kisses you through the fabric of your bikini bottoms and you damn near leap out of your skin. His hands slide up the outside of your hips, underneath the elastic of your bikini, and he yanks them smoothly over your hips and off your legs.

He splits you open with his thumbs and looks up at you, one eyebrow cocked. "Little on, you're soaked."

"What in the name of God did you expect?" you cry.

"Hmm, what should we do about this?" he asks, the picture of innocence as he runs a glancing finger over your clit.

"Oh shut up and eat me!" you snarl.

"What do we say?" he inquires. *This* time, he's *definetely* enjoying your discomfort.

"Please?" you ask as politely as you can under the circumstances.

"Mmm . . ." he thinks about it for a moment. "Okay."

You scream as he fastens his lips over your throbbing clit, scraping his teeth over it very gently. One hand rests on your lower abdomen, making sure your hips don't jerk up and knock his front teeth out.

He runs his tongue over your wetness, eliciting an aria of lust from your throat, "Ah God . . . oh . . ." You cry out a curse as he slips one long finger inside you. The restraining hand on your middle is starting to hurt, your body's jerking so hard. He adds a second finger, gently working them inside you, stretching you. "Jesus, more . . . please . . ."

He obeys, slipping in a third finger. The band in your loins tightens . . . tightens . . . and snaps, releasing a sanity-shattering flood of pleasure through your body. You arch, your legs kicking out of the water with splashes, howling your release to the ceiling and the sky and stars beyond.

When you come (crash really) back down to terra firma, you raise hazy eyes to Qui-Gon. He's smiling, though you can see the razored lust--finally!--in his intoxicating blue eyes.

You scrape yourself off the floor and kiss him passionately, taking your time, tasting yourself in his mouth. When you pull away, you've gotten your second wind . . . you hope.

You engage the tub's jets (setting the speed firmly at almost orgasmic) and slide in, sighing as the water flows over your oversensitive flesh. You turn to the Jedi Master, who just sits back on his heels, waiting. It's your move.

You glide over to him, hook your fingers into the waistband of his trunks and yank downward. Of course, they don't move beyond his hips.

"Hey, c'mon, what am I hung up on?" you ask, giving Qui-Gon an artfully guileless look.

His glare could melt the polar ice caps.

"Wait . . . there we go," you say, easing the elastic around his huge erection. He takes over, maneuvers them off his legs, brings them up out of the water, and deposits them, wadded into a wet ball, beside your discarded bikini.

You reach for him and wrap timid, yet firm, fingers around his cock. It feel like titanium through the swirling water and fear lances through you again. Can you really fit *that* into your body?

You frown. "Now that's not supposed to be there," you muse, sliding your hand down. A shivering intake of breath is only response. "What can we do about this I wonder?" You tighten your grip a little and pull your hand back up.

With an animalistic groan that fires your arousal all over again, he snatches your hand, sits back, kicking his legs out under the water, leaning back against the tub's side, yanks you forward, claims your mouth in another flaming kiss, wraps you in his arms, and impales you.

You gasp. Hard. He's huge, much larger than anyone else you've ever been with; you feel like you're being deflowered all over again. You concentrate on relaxing yourself, letting him slip inside. You look into his face and glory in the mild state of shock across his slackjawed features.

He utters a little moaning sigh as you finish sinking. You feel the tip of his staff brushing against your cervix, and you still want more. He lets you sit there, lets you stretch, and his eyes open. You meet his passionate glare with one of your own.

A part of your mind, dedicated to preserving the intense moments of your life, kicks in, filing this moment, *this moment,* away in your heart; the sound of boiling water and Slash's guitar solo from "November Rain," the feel of warm water spinning over your skin and his body against yours, his cock inside you, the look in his eyes, the light from the candles and from the window painting gold leaf and blue slithers down his face.

I've died, you think simply. Or I'm dreaming.

"No," he rejects gently, his voice a caress. He takes one hand out of the water and brushes the back of his fingers down your cheek, leaving a damp stripe. "Do you know you're beautiful?"

You're not sure how to answer that, so you fall back on your body's demands. You brace the balls of your feet carefully on the tub's bottom and start raising and lowering your pelvis. The feel of him separating you again and again is beyond physical description.

He grunts, throwing his head back. "By the Force . . . tight . . ."

You're beyond words by now, rising and sinking over him as fast as you dare, not wanting your feet to slip. You care makes your pace agonizingly, deliciously slow. His hands, moving under the water, start stroking your body, one back, the other front. You grip his shoulders for balance, your fingertips leaving indentations in his skin.

Finally, your left foot slips and you fall, his staff splitting into you up to the hilt. You moan together. As you brace yourself with your feet again, his hands leave your torso and lock around where your waist flares into your hips. When you try to resume your motion, he grates, "Hold still." He raises you a bit and his hips buck under you, nearly making you lose your balance again. You cry in ecstasy at the speeding-up in tempo. "Ah God, harder! . . . faster! . . . Qui-Gon, please! . . ." you beg before articulation escapes you again. You feel the band tighten again, tying your guts into knots, knots that are getting ready to explode like erotic hand grenades. His harsh cries dig at your ears as his hands on you tighten to a bruising deathgrip.

Suddenly, the pitch of his voice changes. Inside you, he expands and explodes, drenching your womb with hot seed. With that, the band snaps and you fall off the edge of the earth again, adding your voice to his as you collapse over him.

When your senses return, you're still draped over him, his arms around you, although he's no longer inside you. The hot water enwombs you both and you heave a sated sigh.

As your brain begins firing on all synapses again, a thought occurs to you and you look up at Qui-Gon. "Did you really have to . . . persuade this hard?"

He smiles. "Actually, she kissed with me for half a minute or so, pulled back, and slapped me across the face."

You can't help it. You start giggling. I love you Aunt Jane!

"I finally had to do it the other way," he finishes, smiling at the memory.

"Mmm. Now the hard part."

He gives you a quizzical look.

"Getting up enough energy for a repeat performance. In a bed this time. Please?"

He laughs, his chest rumbling against yours. "Why not? We have two days, yes? Just allow me a few minutes, my love."

"I wasn't referring to you," you drawl lazily.

"Actually," he says, sliding you off of him and emerging from the tub. You gawk at his beautifully naked body. "I need to retrieve a few things. I'll be right back."

He departs and you sink into the water, gathering strength. It isn't easy; you really don't want to move. Finally, you drag yourself out of the tub, turning off the jets, draining the water, blowing out the candles, turning off the stereo as the final notes of "Nothing Else Matters" chime through the speakers.

You're wrapping yourself back into your dressing gown when he returns, still completely, incredibly naked. Without ado, he swoops down on you and snatches you off your feet and into his arms, carrying you swiftly to your aunt's bedroom.

As he lays you tenderly down on the turned-down sheets, you get a gander at the coffee table where he's assembled his retrieved things. "Hmm, shaving kit, champagne, hot fudge, whipped cream, strawberries, baby oil, satin sheets, nail polish, kid gloves, ice bucket, and . . ." your jaw drops open.

You look over at Qui-Gon, arching an eyebrow. "*Duct tape,* Gracie?"

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