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

The smoke detector goes off about the same time you do.

Lying on your back, Qui-Gon locked between your legs and inside your body, busy fucking your brains out, the significance of the wailing sound didn't immediately enter into either of your minds. Serious oversight, but forgivable, under the circumstances.

Well, you *were* trying to bake a frozen pizza into edibility when Qui-Gon, wearing your aunt's oversize terrycloth bathrobe (oversize on her translates to about half a size too small on him, but oh well) decided he really didn't like your shirt, sneaking up behind you and undoing the buttons before you could say "Pepperoni and cheese."

The ear-splitting buzz digs at your ears as the spasms for your eighth (you think) orgasm in the last sixteen hours clutch your body. You feel Qui-Gon shoot into you, and at the height of physical ecstasy, you both hitch in a breath and release it in a loud and heartfelt curse.

You stick with the ever-reliable "DAMMIT!!!" while he roars something fast and guttural. You don't understand it, but you don't think it's happy birthday.

He levers his body off yours and you scramble to your feet, taking huge, falling steps to the oven, where a faint cloud of smoke hangs. You slam off the heat as your lover joins you.

"Open the back door," you order, grabbing an oven mitt and pulling open the oven, whipping your head to one side. A dark poof of hot smoke brushes your cheek. Gagging, you don the oven mitt and snatch the pizza off the rack.

Well, it *had* started life as a pizza. Now it resembles a sort of charcoal Frisbee.

You stumble to the door. Qui-Gon sees you coming, hops nimbly out of the way, and you toss the smoking pizza out the door, spinning it like a crispy black discus.

You stand there, coughing up the smoke in your lungs, wincing against the smoke detector's still enthusiastic wailing, and thanking God none of your aunt's neighbors live within sight or sound. Explaining to the fire department why you're throwing burning food around naked with semen oozing down your legs might prove difficult, even for you.

The smoke detector's alarm stutters and dies.

I didn't hear a crunch. Please I didn't hear a crunch, you beg the unsympathetic heavens. You turn around and behold Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master and all-around pillar of strength, cradling his injured right hand.

The imprint of which is embedded in the smoke detector's cracked face.

"All you had to do was push the little red button," you point out, miming the gesture.

He grants you a look that suggests pain and death with nasty pointy teeth.

You turn your head to look back out at the rain-damp backyard, where the remains of your dinner (you didn't just burn it, you *killed* it) still smolders in the wet grass. You heave a sigh, removing the oven mitt and tossing it on the counter. "Well there flew lunch."

He stalks up to you, shaking out his hand. "Here, let me see," you say, taking his hand (you're struck all over again by how huge it is) in both of yours, rubbing the tender side gently.

He looks over the top of your head, examining your handiwork. "Nice throw."

You giggle a little, bring his hand to your mouth, kiss the knuckle gently. "There, all better."

"It still hurts," he informs you, a wicked-little-boy look in his eyes.

You grin as the space between your legs spasms in anticipation. "After we have something to eat, all right? I'm wasting away here."

"Odd, you don't look it." He presses his hands into your flesh gently, testing out how the muscles feel over your bones, working his way down your body. You squirm, delighting still in the slightly rough texture of his palms. "No," he says, completing his examination and coming up to kiss your lips. "Nicely rounded in all the proper places."

"Food first," you say against his mouth. "I need to have more in me than what I ate off you last night."

He kneels. "That can be arranged."

You skip around him and shut the back door. "Food first, Don Juan de Qui-Gon."

He makes a small face at your atrocious wordplay and rises. "Do we have anything else in the house?"

"Nothing except more frozen stuff," you reply, hooking a thumb at the refrigerator. "Aunt Jane doesn't like leaving food in the house when she's away."

Then you remember. Very aware of the Jedi's hungry gaze, you reach up into the cupboard, where your aunt keeps her dry staples. You stare up at the green Tupperware canisters. "Flour, sugar, brown sugar, coffee, tea . . . brown sugar." You stretch up on tiptoe and grab the third largest canister. Setting a plate on the counter, you crack the canister's lid open and dump the cake of moist brown sugar on the plate.

Using your fingertips, you split the mass open, revealing a small green rectangle covered in Saran Wrap. "Bingo, we have a winner."

You unwrap the bundle, producing five twenties and an American Express card. Your aunt calls it 'the oh shit fund,' for moderate financial emergencies. (The 'natural disaster fund,' almost five thousand dollars in cash and two credit cards with twenty thousand dollars on each is kept in a little fireproof box in the basement.)

Qui-Gon's eyebrows lift. "Will Janie mind if we use that money?"

"So long as I pay her back, she's cool with it." You extract a twenty, resecure the Saran Wrap, pack the fund back in with the brown sugar, and put the canister away. "What do you like on your pizza?"

He grins. "You."

You drop your face into your hands. He laughs. "Anything is all right."

"Okay then. While I'm doing that," you bend and grab the Formula 409 and a rag from under the sink, "*you* can start cleaning up this mess you've made."

Your respect and admiration for the man rises another notch when he accepts the job without complaint.

You move to the telephone in the dining room, hoping Aunt Jane still has the number for the local pizza place pasted to the telephone. She does. You dial the number and place your order.

"How much is that gonna run me?" you ask.

Before the helpful gentleman on the other end can hazard a response, a powerful image crowds into your brain; of yourself, sometime during the night before, looking helpless and beautiful, wrists bound (by *duct tape* of all things) to the cherry bars of your aunt's bedstead, another silver stripe covering your eyes, a champagne soaked strawberry guided by a hand who's owner you don't see tracing the outline of your gasping lips, a satin sheet covering the mattress beneath you.

Put that next to what *you* remember of the experience; dark helplessness, cold sweet strawberry, hot rough hands, slithery cool sheets; and your whole body blushes. You want to moan out loud as the sensations sizzle back into your nerve endings, but you're on the telephone, so you settle for hissing a lungful of air between clenched teeth as the image fades.

"Are you okay lady?" the guy on the other end asks.

"Yeah I'm sorry. Say again? I wasn't listening."

He repeats himself, but all you catch is that it's less than twenty bucks with tip as another image plants its steel-shod feet in your mind; of your lips, enclosed around a man's cock, head sliding torturously downward, throat parting to allow access, eyes looking up bashfully, a hand tangled in your short hair, fighting not to clamp down and shove in the rest of the way.

Thank God I was doing *something* right, you think faintly as another's remembered passion brands you.

>>Yes you were,<< comes his answering thought, laced with affection and pride and desire.

"How long?" you ask the pizza dude, using what's left of your will to keep your voice even.

You think you're doing a decent job until yet another of those memories crash-lands inside your skull with a mnemonic thud; of your face as you came around his cock the first time in the hottub, your eyes, edged in brown lashes, closed, your body rigid and trembling, your mouth open, your voice screaming your release.

"About half an hour," the unsuspecting fellow on the other end informs you.

"Thanks," you croak and slam down the phone.

You whirl to face Qui-Gon, standing naked and serene in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching you.

You flee for the relative sanctuary of the bathroom, bolting yourself in and collapsing on the toilet, shaking, needing a moment to collect yourself. You thought you knew about mind abilities. You had no idea.

When your knees are capable of bearing your weight, you step into the shower and spray yourself down, letting cool water bring the heat in your body back down to the realm of reason. When you emerge, you feel a little better. A little less unsettled.

A thought occurs to you. Do you really see me that way? you yell at the top of your mental lungs.

You feel him wince. >>You needn't shout little one.<<

You tone it down. Sorry. Well do you?

He's silent for a moment, not because he doesn't know, you can tell, but because he needs to put it just so. Another picture comes to you; of you, lying asleep in your aunt's bed, head nestled against his chest, breath hissing lightly through your open mouth, face puffy, hair a mess . . . and still beautiful.

I'll take that as a yes.

Even as a thought, his laugh is a caress.

You dry off, wrap a towel around your chest, and go back to the kitchen to inspect Qui-Gon's handiwork. Before you get to the oven, though, you step into his arms and kiss him, deeply, lingering.

That takes a few minutes, then you look over the now-clean oven, evading Qui-Gon's half-serious attempts for another go-round on the floor. (If it were *really* serious, you'd already be on the linoleum adding to your ever-growing collection of skid marks.)

He manages to wrap himself in the towel with you, running his body over yours, when the doorbell rings.

"Ah, sustenance arrives!" you sigh. After you satisfy the growling in your middle, maybe you can work on Qui-Gon's skid mark collection.

You unwind yourself from towel and man, snatch the twenty from the counter, grab your shirt from where Qui-Gon pitched it and start buttoning it up as you go to answer the door.

Just as you step into the foyer, all the buttons on your shirt undo themselves and Qui-Gon's snatching it from your shoulders, leaving you wearing naught but a shocked look as your hand reaches for the doorknob.

"I told you, I don't like that shirt," he growls against your left ear.

"You expect me to open that door . . ." you start.

He sidesteps until he's beside the door, holding you against his body, one arm arched around so hand and forearm cover your breasts, the other hand cupped lightly over your mound. His grip turns your profile to the door, hiding him from sight.

"Open the door," he orders in a voice like raw silk.

Jedi Mind Trick, you think too late as you open the door on a very surprised pizza delivery dude.

Bear in mind; you're covered. You're not even giving the poor guy a front view. All the same, you blush madly, lips stretched in an absolutely idiotic little grin, as though you were a parent excusing a small but embarrassing mess your toddler just made.

The pizza man, cool despite the fact that he's looking at a right-side view of a woman wearing nothing but a pair of hands, presents you with your pizza. You dump it unceremoniously on a table by the door. "That'll be $17.83."

You hand him the twenty. "Keep the change."

Your voice is astoundingly steady considering Qui-Gon took that moment to start nibbling on your neck.

The delivery guy looks into your face. "You're Jane's kid, aren't you?"

"Niece," you correct, biting your lip.

"Thought so. Have a good day."

You slam the door in his face, turn around, and start yelling. Most of it boils down to how-dare-you.

He takes it in stride for a bit, face absolutely solemn, giving you his omniscient Master look, until you start stamping your foot. He roars laughter, which just makes you feel worse.

"This is not fucking funny!!!"

"Do you know how pretty you are when you're irritated little one?"

You have to restrain yourself from slapping the impudent son of a bitch across the face. "Before Christ, what do you have against my shirt?"

He steps back into your personal space, dropping his lips to your shoulder. Growling. "It's in my way."

Whatever indignant nothing you were going to say is lost as desire hammers in your body. You run your short fingernails over his shoulders, wishing they were longer. Wishing you could claw him, draw some blood, make him pay for humiliating you.

He hunkers down, locks one arm around your rear end, and hauls you up like he's lifting a very small child. Any attempt to get yourself loose just tightens his arm until you feel the tiny blood vessels under your skin give, bruising you. You gulp as he strides into the bedroom. He's so gentle, it's easy to forget what a powerful man he really is.

He dumps you on the sheets, turning his arm so you tumble onto your stomach. You try to crawl away-he's scaring you now, and damn don't you like it?-when he clamps one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip and yanks you back, stabbing you with his fully erect cock.

You feel something tear as he shoves and you scream, lifting your hips, spreading your thighs, something, anything, now he's hurting. You're not entirely sure if you mind though.

"After an entire night, you're still tight," he grits. "We'll have to fix that, won't we?"

His hand leaves your shoulder and reaches underneath you, tapping your clit with expert flicks of his fingertips. Each touch makes your body spark and your insides spasm, squeezing his iron shaft. With the other hand he holds you steady as he pounds into you.

Your hands curl into fists, clutching at the heavy satin under you. You feel your climax approaching, faster than you've ever felt it. At least up until now, you've had time to prepare. Now . . . you moan as his fingertip lingers over your clit, stroking. Now you feel like you're twisting on a rack, one made of electrical fire, with the charge swinging into the danger zone.

The band snaps without anything resembling warning, and you throw back your head and howl from the bottom of your lungs. And Qui-Gon, god damn him, is still going at it, turning your body into spastic goo.

As you feel him come inside you with an earthshaking groan, you drop forward onto the bed and simply pass out.

When you come to, you're tucked securely under the covers with a breakfast tray over your lap and an apologetic Jedi Master serving you pizza. >>Did I hurt you?<<

"I'll live," you sigh melodramatically, pulling his face to yours in an all-is-forgiven kiss. Great God, how does he do it? He's played me like a porn star for . . . you look at the clock, eighteen hours now.

His smile against your lips tells you he picked that one up. "Practice, my love. Years," a kiss, "and years," another kiss, "of practice."

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