DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
The hand in your hair is roughened, catching the strands of your hair and tangling them in its grasp. You lift your head marginally so as to avoid getting the length of your hair pulled. Your hands slacken on Qui-Gon’s feet. The smell of an unwashed man crosses your nostrils, and you snort heavily to avoid the smell.
“Your woman, bonded with her are you?” The voice sounds roughened as the hands and the basic is broken, as if newly learned.
“Very much so,” Qui-Gon answers back, his voice so close to a growl that you are surprised at the sound. His muscles appear slack, but his chin sets. A twist of his head has you meeting his eyes in a second. They are brilliant, shining, and all illuminate in the dim interior. You can feel the possessiveness and the protection wafting in waves from him.
You catch the movement of Mace next to Qui-Gon. The other Jedi Master rises on his knees, almost crouching. He too appears relaxed, but you can tell that he is poised to jump. Qui-Gon’s words from early jump into the fore of your mind: Bring an innocent into it, and the meaning of the Jedi presence is null and void.
You straighten your head, holding it upright and tight. With a slight smile, you let Qui-Gon know that you are fine and with your eyes you encourage him to do what he does best: negotiate.
“She is newly bonded to me,” Qui-Gon begins, his eyes raking over you to center on the man’s eyes behind you. He leans forward, bending one of his knees, and rests an arm on the bent leg.
The man grunts, his hand petting at your head. You can feel your hair brush by your cheek as it is swept up. The ends of the strands are still wet and are freezing as they pass your exposed skin on your neck and it causes you to shiver.
“Good taste, Jedi,” the man barks out.
Qui-Gon’s nod is imperceptible at best. His eyes never leave the face of the man. “I thank you.”
“You will join the gathering tonight…” You suppress a shiver of disgust at the mention of what is surely the orgy about which Qui-Gon has told you. The man leans near your face, his breath rank in the closed space. “We will seal our trust by sharing our women.”
Qui-Gon’s nod, again, is so slight that it is non-existent. “We will join the gathering…”
The man grasping your hair almost shouts with glee, pulling your hair to bend your neck back. You are shot through with the pain of pulled muscles, until your eyes are staring at one of the most unkempt men you have ever had the displeasure to meet. The man is nothing but a mass of untamed hair, untrimmed facial hair, poor teeth and piercing eyes. He leans toward you and you inhale quickly and intently.
Qui-Gon’s hand pulls at your lower arm and suddenly you are in his lap. The man that was holding looks as though he has been struck with muteness for a minute. Then, the giant moves off, shambling across the dirt floor his footfalls loud in your ears. You stare after him for a moment, aware that someone else is stroking your hair. You turn quickly and meet Qui-Gon’s intense eyes.
His hand moves to the curl on your forehead and moves it to the side. The ends of his callused fingers twirl there for a moment and then his eyes turn to the rest of your face. You open your mouth, only to have the hand drift down your cheek to your lips. It is warm as it presses there.
“He will not touch you, love. No one will touch you but me.”
You shake your head with a little force. “And how will you keep them from doing so, Qui-Gon? They do not seem to be the kind to listen to reason.”
“Then we will use force. But they will not touch you.” His voice is firm as he reaches to cup your head. “Are you all right?”
You nod, pressing your chin into his thumb as it rubs the skin there. “It has been a while since someone handled me like that, but I do recall how to act for personal protection.”
Mace snorts behind Qui-Gon and gives a quick nod toward the gathered men. “Against them, little one, you don’t stand a chance.”
Qui-Gon’s head twist to his friend is so short, you fear for his neck muscles. His hair flies out to clip at your face as he centers his unforgiving eyes on Mace’s expressive ones. “Then she will not be placed in that situation…”
“No force.” You whisper and are relieved when you see Mace agree with you.
“To pull your saber would be considered an act of war. We are here to negotiate a truce, not fight the entire leader army, friend.”
“I will not allow them to hurt her, Mace.” He grits his teeth. “We will fight out with our hands if need be.” The vibes lashing out from Qui-Gon’s body worry you, and you lay your hands against his chest in an effort to calm him. You feel his heart beating almost wildly, and yet, his exterior remains cool and steady as ice.
His eyes turn to you, infinite sadness and tenderness are swimming there, bobbing the in the current. You smile gently and rest your hands against his cheeks. You will be safe, you know that, but you are unsure of the safety of the mission.
The gathering begins rather suddenly: a shout, a whistle like a siren sounding, and then there are people all around. In front of you, the communal area around the fire fills with sliding skins, sweaty in the smoky air of the tent. Legs and arms mingle, shed clothing articles, and hair strands meet and dance. It soon becomes impossible for you to tell where one human leaves off and where another begins. Chalices of spiced, spiked wine flow, enticing and exciting the members of the small camp. Almost certainly, you decide, there is an additive to the drink that is helping these people to loosen their actions. The smell of sex is heavy in the air, permeating and reaching every foot of the space.
Your thoughts are reinforced as Qui-Gon hands you a heavy cup, wooden and carved. A slight tip allows you to smell the contents: heavy, mead-like, and heady with a strong smell of an herb. He urges you with a lifted eyebrow and a flick of his wrist. “Drink it, my sweet, it will loosen you.”
You eye him over the rim of the cup and press it to your mouth. The sides of the cup are wider than your chin, and you hear the sighs, grunts, and moans from the pile of people behind you echoed within. You wrinkle your nose as the first tendrils of the smell dusts your senses, but you hold your breath and swallow it. Qui-Gon continues to talk, watching you intently. “We will have to join them, love. I am sorry for that.”
“We will have to appear involved in the activities.” He grips your arms, holding you separate from him.
You nod, grasping his shoulders. You feel the strength as they move, like a coiled spring. Your ensemble of sturdy pants and loose shirt slides across your skin as Qui-Gon grabs you around your waist and lifts. Cradling you against his chest, he makes his way to a collection of animal skins nearest to the two of you. The chill in the air was not noticeable until he lifts you apart from his body. It makes your skin hypersensitive to the touch.
A deep grunt rumbles from his chest as he sets you down. Qui-Gon leans over, his eyes intense. “I am sorry, love. I hope that you will forgive me.”
You shake your head in confusion. Suddenly, however, you realize why he is so sorrowful. Your skin is hypersensitive, aching, pleading for touch. The section of your brain reserved for instinct stretches and clamors for attention. Smells of sex, animal skins and smoke mingle and fuse as your nostrils flare.
“You needed to be very receptive,” he whispers, his voice like sandpaper on silk, “ we must appear to be very involved… I could not lose my attentiveness…” his eyes darken. “Forgive me.”
Beyond caring, you reach up to touch the opening of his tunic. The nearness of the fire has caused a thin sheen of sweat to erupt on his gold skin. The hair at the opening is soft, strong. You arch your back as it rasps your palm.
Looking above you, you gaze at your lover under the haze of your animal instincts. Tall, broad, long arms, long legs- he appears to be everywhere at once. Silken long hair, tawny and bronzed, falls past his shoulders- reminiscent of a mane. A proud mane for a proud lion. You feel the ache- the ache of need. A need to join - a need to mate.
Your sigh pulls his eyes to your face. Love shines there – like a torch in the night. Lust fights for space, but his love conquers all. You gulp at the sudden emotion causing a lump in your throat.
Bending over his folded legs, his lips press to your sternum, a comforting presence. “ I love you,” he whispers as his lips blaze to your ear.
“With my life,” you add, fighting to articulate intelligence. He nods, his lips pressed together and rises to remove his leggings. A pair of hands land on your head, stroking your hair and Qui-Gon freezes in place, dark shadows fleet across his face.
“Women are used here – not cherished,” The grumble his loud in your ears. You wiggle to remove your head, only to have it held firm by pressure to your temple. “Do we need to show you how, Jedi?”
Qui-Gon’s jaw sets above you. A rumbled no cascades from on high. Your Jedi Master claws at his clothes ripping his leggings in his haste. He falls, catching himself on his arms above your body. His breath is harsh, catching. “She will be used,” he grits out.
With a yank to your arms, you are pulled upright way from the questing hands that were holding you. His hands grip at your hair and you hear, quietly and insistently in your mind. “Love, are you all right?”
You do not nod, but rather lean forward to kiss at his lips. You want the roughness of his beard; you ache for the warmth of his tongue. He groans as you latch onto his bottom lip, swiping your tongue across its surface. As you pull away, you gasp. “Anything…anything for you.” Your lips travel down his neck and shoulders, his chest –brushing burnished gold. As he falls back on his hands, bending his back like a readied bow – you see the object for which you are burning at that moment.
His hands grasp at your tied shirt; pulling, separating and then his warmth is against your breast. Your nipples harden in anticipation and you hear whimpers, muffled pleads…Gods his hands are warm, large…
You are lifted, your back arching. The shirt is stripped from your arms, pooling under you.
“Beautiful,” he says, laying you back gently against the bed of furs,” so beautiful.”
Lifting your hands, you bury them in his hair at the nape of his neck. You slide them down, grasping the sash and untying it. As it falls away from his body, you sit up to bury your face in the muscles of his chest. You lips trace the familiar paths, climbing and repelling down mountains of skin.
“Take your pants off….” He grits out. You shake your head as you bend at the waist to kiss his stomach. The hem-top of the leggings he wears is still cool against his aflame skin and you grasp them so your fingers are buried inside them. So hot…warming you, like a fire on show…. melting.
His groan rises and joins the others floating in the air around you. As he shrugs out of his tunic, you pull incessantly at his pants. Little grunts sound from your lips, “Off,” you manage to articulate. The shake of his head is quick and to the point. Frowning you tug again at the material. His low growl answers you and you are pushed to lied back on the skins.
As roughly as you wanted to remove his clothes, so are yours peeled from you. Your hips are whipped upwards as the pants are stripped from your torso and thighs. His hands pull the clothing from your body and return- rubbing, mapping, and worshipping up your legs.
You run your eyes up Qui-Gon’s body. Your warrior’s saber, his cock stands straight out at you. Filled, reddened and eager, it salutes from a thick bed of hair. Undeterred, intent on your object, you lean forward. Opening your mouth, you allow your tongue to trace his length.
The smell of musk is strong and rivals the other nature-driven smells that surround you.. Animal skins warm your knees, the fire warms your back, and his erection warms your face. Ice and flames, cold and heat- extremes that both burns you and purify you.
Finally you lean forward and take Qui-Gon in your mouth and throat. His shout is loud and pleasure-filled. Taking up a rhythm like the sea – you rise and fall, flow and ebb until he is unable to contain his thrusts. Grunts erupt from him - needy. Around you, women whimper and shout; men growl and groan. You can feel his race for completion…climbing, climbing….
Your shoulders are gripped. Your head is drawn back none too gently back from his body. His large hands cup your head like a ripe fruit. You are kissed tenderly and then flipped. You come to rest on your knees and hands. His own echoes your grunt.
You open your eyes to see the room. Women kneel, sit and lie astride men. Many women are servicing more than one man. More often than not, pain fills their faces.
Thought is cut off as Qui-Gon fingers probe your entrance. Wetness coats his fingers as they pull away seconds later. A groan is followed by your lover easing inside of you. Bliss. Completion. Swollen heat.
Love.
You are coated with all the emotions inside and out. He slides completely in, meeting little resistance. Once buried, his moan is a low keel. “Love…” he moans, his voice as silky as his length. His testicles nestle against your buttocks, heat upon heat. Pulling out you feel every inch and as he thrusts back inside, you throw your head back. Hair tickles your back and he grabs a handful.
Thrusts begin in earnest. Rocking, resisting…furs leave abrasions on your knees. Your hands grip at the pelt. Thrust. Thrust. Growls, low and menacing.
Your arms give way, tumbling your upper body to the dirt floor. Change of angle. Gods…His arms fall to your sides, grabbing the pelt alongside yours. “Mmmm.” You moan.
“I love what you do to me,” he breathes. Another thrust threatens to throw you completely to the ground. You brace your arms as he pulls back.
You can feel his cock growing, rapidly. It splits you- throws your skin asunder, breaks your resolve. Screams of pleasure press past your lips. Ripples, waves, floods, deluge…pleasure – liquid heat.
“Milk me,” he moans in your ear, his voice only remotely human, “ so tight.”
You grit your teeth and arch your back as another orgasm rips through you. “Gods!” his shout is punctuated by his leaning back on his feet and grabbing your hips. Your moan is lost in the throng of other women’s screams. Wave, crest, push, eruption. Waves of magma crest as your knees give way Qui-Gon holds you to his pelvis as his body pumps his heat into you.
His thrusts slow and he moves to the side and collapses next to you. Never before have you felt the tremors in his arms and yet they are there as he gathers you to him. Your nose is pressed against his chest; your legs are twined with his right one.
“Gods, dearheart,” he breathes.
Sounds continue to surround you, but the loudest is the clockwork heartbeat pounding against your ear. The familiar blanket of musk and sex wafts across you and you glow in the aftermath of your joining. Qui-Gon’s eyes are half-closed in satisfaction, but what you can see of them is the deep gray-blue of an angry, tossed ocean.
A hand pulls at you ankle. Qui-Gon is up and on his feet in a scant hundredth of a second. “Release her.”
“It is out turn, Jedi,” pounds out the man sounding like an animal. “Seal your trust with us.”
A young woman is bodily thrown toward Qui-Gon, who catches her in the crook of his arm and steadies. His next words are low.
“We have participated in your rite. We have observed your custom. Now observe ours, novel warrior. We do not send out women out for use in the camps. They are to be cherished.”
The man’s eyes narrow, and his rough hand does not release you. “ You insult our custom.”
Qui-Gon shakes his head. “We simply observe our own in this instance.” The girl he still has hold of whimpers lowly. Qui-Gon’s arms and legs tense.
“She will be used with or without your permission, Jedi. We will take what we wish – it is our right.” With that he pulls you toward him. You raise your other leg and throw a wild kick at the man’s shoulder. The impact jars your body. He reacts by punching you in the ribs. The crack of the bone and your shout of pain are drowned out by the sound of a lightsaber igniting. An emerald green glow shatters the dimness and overwhelms the firelight.
“You will unhand her- or loose the hand.” Qui-Gon settles on both feet balanced. Much like his stance in practice – this one shows readiness. Your vision is clouded with the red of pain, but you remain conscious.
“To pull this weapon is an act of war,” the man warns.
“Then so be it,” Qui-Gon answers, “ a war you have. Now…release her.”