Rating: NC-17
Summary: Qui-Gon gets a massage... and stuff.
Archive: Just to JP, Temple Library and Sith Chicks.
Note: Written for the JP Smut Fic challenge. Much smooches and thanks to everyone who assailed me with smut to inspire me to write some. Feedback adored.
You warm the oil in your hands as you stare at the tan skin in front of you. Thin pale lines cover his flesh, telling the story of his years of service. You rub your palms together and slowly spread the oil across his broad shoulders, pressing into the tight muscles beneath your thumbs. A muffled groan rumbles up from the cushion.
"Like that?" you ask, already knowing the answer.
"Gods yes," comes the reply, the pleasure in his voice so evident it's almost sinful.
You chuckle and press into the knot. "Just tell me if I'm hurting you, ok?" The snort tells you exactly what he thinks of you hurting him. You focus on one particularly stubborn lump, kneading it until it begins to dissolve under your fingers. Another sigh and the shaggy head falls to one side, giving you your first real view of his profile.
He broke his nose at one time in his life. You wonder if it was in service or in stupidity.
"Stupidity," he murmurs. "My friend threw a lightsaber at me."
You grin. "A lightsaber? You're lucky to have a nose."
"It wasn't lit."
You shake your head. "Lover's spat?"
A watery chuckle. "You could call it that."
"This sounds like a very good story, Master Jedi." Your hands now press into tight flesh under his shoulderblades.
His lips curl slightly behind his beard. "If you keep this up, I may tell you before my better judgement takes over." Another lusty sigh and he seems to melt further into the cushions. "And my name is Qui-Gon."
You pour a bit more warmed oil into you hands. "You don't spoil yourself like this very often, do you Qui-Gon?"
He opens an eye briefly, then settles more snugly into his cushion. "I don't often have the time or the opportunity." Another sigh. "Though I now understand why Obi-Wan has these done so often."
"Obi-Wan?" You pause, thinking. "Oh, you must mean Red." He opens that eye again.
"Red?"
"Cute, blondish-red hair on top, really curly red in the middle, braid?"
He takes a moment to process that piece of information, then you swear you see a bit of pink tint his cheeks. "Yes, that would be him..."
"Red is a doll," you smile, moving your hands lower still to his waist. You press your palms another knot, eliciting a startled gasp, followed by another moan. "Good?"
"Most excellent. Gods, if the Sith came in right now, screaming for the chosen one, I'd say, 'Take him, I'm busy...'"
You start long strokes up and down the length of his back. "Coming from a Jedi, that is an extremely nice compliment." Moving lower, you slowly pull back the towel that drapes over his hips and backside. "I know how important your duty is to you."
He nods slightly and relaxes into the cushions again, content under your ministrations. You pour a bit of oil into your palms and then spread it over the twin globes of his buttocks. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes, letting you run knowing fingers over his skin, along the cleft and below. Your fingers are soft on his legs, massaging the hard muscles of his thighs and calves, around ankles and onto the soles of his feet. There are pressure points in the feet that trigger pleasure and pain, that can bring total awareness or put a body to sleep. You glance at the man before you, wondering what he would prefer.
"Whatever you wish," he murmurs. "I am yours."
The lotion is musky, and will soothe the hard calluses on the bottoms of his feet, but that is only a pleasant side effect. You work it into his right foot, pressing lightly on the area around the ball. He gasps and a slight quiver rushes through his body. "This is a pleasure point, Qui-Gon. It is supposed to send a pleasurable sensation through you." You mirror the action on his other foot, causing another gasp, another quiver. Shaking your hair loose from its clips, you stroke the length of his body from toe to shoulder with your fingers, following closely with the mass of your hair. He groans softly, his body shaking from the gentle touch. You toss your hair back over your shoulder and breathe warm air over his skin, along his spine, across his backside and down his thighs. He groans again and arches slightly off the table.
"Roll over, Qui-Gon."
He opens his eye again, hesitant, then slowly rolls onto his back.
His eyes are closed as you slowly draw your gaze across his body. His skin is tan, his lightly furred chest covered with scars stretched tightly over firm muscles. Your fingers lightly stroke his flat abdomen, bringing more quivers and moans from him. You pour a small amount of oil onto his chest and slowly trace the pattern of raised flesh, your thumbs brushing his pebbled nipples with gentle, teasing strokes. You move lower, across his ribs to his stomach, curling around his waist again then drawing a line across his body. Your fingers move lower still.
He gasps and shudders as you trace the juncture of his legs to his torso. You've always liked this spot on the male body, so simple but so sensitive. You stroke him again, pressing a little more, lingering a little longer before moving out to his hips. He shuffles a bit, arching into your touch again. You smile and move your hands lower still.
His legs are long, thighs hard and chiseled and dusted with dark hair that is soft under your palms. You pour more oil onto your palms and stroke the inside of his thighs, brushing the soft skin with an equally soft touch. You stroke his legs, watching his feet tense, his toes curl and his hips arch up slightly. You glance at his erect shaft and raise an eyebrow. He'll not last much longer at this pace.
You run your hands over his skin once again, then take his swollen organ between your fingers, pulling another gasp from his barely parted lips. He is warm and heavy in your hands, pulsing slightly as a droplet of liquid beads on the red tip.
You lower your head to his and brush your lips against his as you ask, "May I?"
"Please," comes the strangled reply.
You kiss him softly, tasting the soft lips hidden behind that beard. Your fingers curl around him and begin with soft, slow strokes covering his length from base to head, swirling slowly around the ridge before moving back to the base. His breath catches and he moves his hand as if to touch you, then stops himself.
You purr, "Would you like to help me?"
He doesn't answer, but hesitantly places his shaking hand over yours. He guides your movements, pausing your hand at the base, squeezing a bit tighter, then pulling up quickly. He jerks at the sensation, his breath now ragged and warm in your hair. Red said he was a closet sensualist, and from this demonstration, you can believe him. His whispers and moans are enough to trigger your own desire, but you tamp it down for now.
His moan becomes a shout as your lips close over him, and he arches his back in a vain attempt to keep from thrusting into your mouth. You purr again, sending another shiver of sensation through him and he drives his free hand into the cushion. The hand that covers yours tenses, strong fingers shaking as he literally holds onto his control. You speed up a bit, your lips tightly closed around his shaft, your tongue covered with his slight tang. You feel him shudder and there is an explosion of fluid into your mouth. His shouts become whimpers, his harsh breath now deep sighs. He relaxes again, his pulse calming as the cool air from the room washes over his sweat-sheened body. You finish your task, then brush another kiss across his bearded chin. He gifts you with crooked smile. "That was..." he breathes.
"Another pressure point." You purr, brushing your nose against the tip of his. "Perhaps if you return, I can show you others."
He raises a shaky hand to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, his eyes as bright as his smile. "I will return. And I look forward to the lesson."
