Strawberry




"You're not going dressed like that."

When I packed up all my worldly goods to come out of the pulsing heart of the Republic and descend into the backwater (terminally cushy) post of Bodyguard to the Royal House of Eab Nanoorn, I had room to spare in my carryall. The fact is, I was shipped out here to detox. I don't know how the hell I'm ever going to tell you the truth, but there it is. Artur and Sara did their level best to make my mind snap, to fray my nerve to the breaking point, to crush whatever heart I might have been born with, and didn't stop until they were absolutely certain that none of these things would ever happen. I'm almost thirty years old. I had nothing but my field kit, my uniforms, my lightslate and my saber. For the past ten years I've either made do with what I had or done without.

Part of my training, of course, involved acquiring a sense of style. A Jedi does not commit a fashion crime. A Jedi blends, complements himself and his surroundings, and fails to offend the sensibilities of those he is trying to sneak up upon and knife in the back. Therefore, I felt prepared for the task of purchasing a proper wardrobe for myself as I journeyed from Coruscant to Kais. The ship's log will attest to the fact that I did not go slumming. I bought what I thought would properly outfit me for any social function from high court to orgy. I charged it all to the Temple and smugly crushed the pangs of guilt that attempted to spring up at me as I did so. If they wanted me to prove my functionality as a 'normal' Jedi, they could damn well foot the bill.

I shouldn't have been so conservative.

"We're going on a picnic, not military maneuvers," you say, frowning at my uniform.

"There's nothing wrong with my uniform." And there isn't. It's clean, neat, in good repair and suitable for any number of activities.

"It's beige and you're not going like that."

"Well, I'd like to know what you think you're going to do about it. I'm a grown man who is perfectly capable of dressing himself. You've never gotten me to change clothes yet and I'm not going to start now. I'll be waiting in the Wraith."

And I will be, am, do wait for you. For all that I try to maintain this hardassed exterior, this gruff, bossy, unreasonable attitude for the sake of reminding you of why I am here, I often wish I could let you dress me up in any way you chose. I'd do just about anything for you. But if there's one thing I know for sure it's that a subject will start to ignore your authority the very SECOND you let them overrule you on anything. I'd rather you be pissed about my clothes than you be shot, so you can just huff the day away. I'll make it up to you.

When you finally join me in the Wraith, you're on your comm link talking to half a hundred people at once. A sure sign that you're not speaking to me.

Somehow, you make me feel how you're not talking to me by emphasizing the fact, to wit: talking to everyone else while I'm sitting right there in front of you. I school myself to patience and admire the way your pants cup your genitals, the smooth shift of cloth against your thighs as you work the speeder's pedals. I can tell you've noticed my scrutiny because your belly blushes and your cock begins to harden. I don't even bother to glance at your face. We've played this game often enough that I can picture your flushed expression of smug, frustrated, self-satisfaction. You are such a contradiction.

The fact is, if it weren't for my dragging you out of the clubs last night, you probably wouldn't be capable of driving right now. I can't get used to this culture. All anyone seems concerned about here is who they're going to fuck next. I can't stand it, some nights, the way you hunt and get hunted, seemingly by reflex. I'm beginning to resent the hours I spend trying to scrape the feel of other people off me when all I want is your Language written on my body. I can't tell you that. I think I'm a little scared of what you would say. You're so giving, so complete in yourself, that I wouldn't dare try to change you. If I were to kiss you and taste someone else, well... I'd just have to kiss you until I had washed that other one away. In all honesty, it scares me to want you this much.

Today, though. Today you're taking me off from everyone else. This might be heaven, but I'm not completely sure. I could see you thinking this morning, knowing that I had to go make my preliminary report to the Council. I think it might have been the first time you noticed that I wasn't wearing a 'property of Blaine' tag anywhere on my body. When I got back, there was a picnic packed and you said I wasn't going like this. In my uniform. Which I am, so there.

We travel for a very long time, inland to the rural areas and past farms of various sizes. The land becomes more hilly as we go, and I can just see the mountains in the distance. You pull off the main road, following some path I can hardly make out in the underbrush. The Wraith slips between giant conifers, their scent filling the air with a crisp, spicy coolness. A sudden turn to the right and the land drops off below us, a sandy bluff spilling down into a tiny cup of a valley. Sunlight streams down through the break in the canopy; ribbons of yellow and gold paint the green carpet with warm welcome. You park the Wraith and gesture for me to bring the provisions and wander away, still talking on your comm link. I do as I am bid.

You lead me out into the tiny green valley, pausing once to remove your shoes then going on, stepping carefully between the plants as you go. I follow suit until you stop and point to the place where you want the blanket spread. When I have lunch laid out for you, you sign off your comm link and pitch it some few paces away, amongst the plants. I make no comment, but lie back on the blanket and offer you a plate.

You take it and begin filling it from the containers as if by memory. Your eyes never leave off their study of me. Finally you say "You're right. Beige does suit you, somehow."

"Thanks," I say.

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"Sure it is. It requires true style to make this look good. Took years of training to get the knack," I reply, perfectly deadpan. You take a long minute to decide I'm not serious.

You snort at that, an elegant rebuttal of my foolishness, but make no arguments. After a long moment I sit up and get my own lunch. We eat in silence and I take the time to enjoy the sunlight on my face and in your hair, the smells of the forest and the far-off cries of the forest creatures. You take your turn at work, packing up our dishes and cleaning up our little mess. I lie down on the blanket, strangely discomforted, as if something is missing. With a start I realize what the missing thing is.

"You didn't bring a dessert?"

"Didn't need to," you say, leaning over me and plunging your hand into the thick greenery that surrounds us. You pull your hand back and show me the small red berries there. "I brought us to it."

You pull a small sprig of green leaf off the top of one and press it to my lips. It is sweet, almost all juice and no berry, soft enough to crush against my teeth with a firm stroke of my tongue. I take one from your hand and return the favor, enjoying the pleasure you get from this simple act. Within minutes we're crawling around the valley, barefoot, sweet-mouthed and laughing as we race to reach the best fruit so that we might feed the choicest berries to each other. Our craving for dessert is sated long before we stop picking. Now I'm eating from your hand to catch the flavor of you, the warm scent of your wrist, the curve of your smile. Finally we fall together in the middle of a patch where many berries are within easy reach. You lie across my chest, one hand fiddling with my hair while the other draws lazy circles across my thighs. "It's beautiful here," I say, by way of thanks.

"I'm glad you like it. I found it a long time ago, when Kyle and I were trying to run away... not really, you know. Just taking off, like kids do. We made the secret service guys drive us out here and we all tramped around for hours. Had a ball. Corgie even remembered to bring a proper lunch for us. When me and Kyle finally wore ourselves out, they carried us back to the skimmer and took us home. I remember it all with such clarity, how it felt to be on my own, free, with my big brother looking out for me." You sit up to stare down at me. "It's... to me this is a sacred place. I just wanted to share it with you, so you'd know how special you are to me."

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come. Instead I pull you down and kiss you, drinking deeply of your taste, the crisp, clean sweetness I always find within you. I'm rewarded with a surprised little gasp, then full and energetic reciprocation.

After a long moment I break the kiss, cupping your face in my hands. "Go back to the blanket. Take your shirt off and wait for me."

"Just my shirt?" you playfully ask.

"Just your shirt," I confirm with a smile.

You drop another kiss on my mouth then get up to obey. That's one of the many things I adore about you. You trust me not to scheme against you. When I'm devising a surprise for you I never see the suspicion of duplicity in your eyes. It warms my heart the way you jump in and go along for the ride when you know I'm trying to please you.

It takes only a few minutes to gather my ammunition, and I join you on the picnic blanket. You're lying on your back, head pillowed on your shirt and your hands behind your head. I put the strawberries in a small pile just out of your reach and stand over you, taking my time in removing my belt, stole and tunics. You lie still, humming some tune in your throat and watching with unabashed avarice. When I kneel beside you, you are shamelessly hard for me. Is there any question why I want you for my own?

"Turn over," I say, nudging you with one knee. You comply, wordlessly assenting to whatever I have planned. I straddle your ass and lean forward, trailing kisses up one side of your ribcage, across your shoulders and down the other side. My fingers stroke gently along your spine, soothing you as you wriggle under my light caresses. When your skin is pink with arousal and your writhing is under neither your control nor mine I move to kneel beside you again. When you're this turned on you get so sensitive just about anything makes you moan with pleasure. I do adore hearing you moan.

"Now, you're going to have to hold very still," I say, knowing full well how difficult that will be for you. I lay a line of four berries up your spine, marking the path I intend to follow. You feel their chill dampness and shiver, hands already gripping the blanket under you. With my teeth I crush the berry in the small of your back. Pale pink juice runs across your skin and soft pulp slithers along your spine as I lap up the sweet fruit. Rough licks gather the seeds and gentle flicks of lip and tongue cleanse you of the berry nectar one cool drop at a time. Your hips roll and twist as I make a few final passes of my mouth over your back, making sure I have collected every morsel. When the only flavor I find there is your own, I move up to crush the next berry. As the juice runs down towards your ribs you moan, finally understanding what it is I have planned for you.

The sunlight is golden and warm on your skin and glitters wetly where I have feasted. Through slitted eyes I watch you struggle to press up into my kiss and yet not disturb my snack. Your hips rock as you rub urgently against the blanket under you. As I lap up the juice from the second berry I slip my hand under your belly and unfasten your trousers, then slide them off your legs as smoothly as I can. Your cock is like a firestone in my palm. Your breathing is nothing more than ragged groans as I stroke your shaft and eat from your back, and you curve yourself up, trying to make contact with me. I pull away, letting you touch nothing more than my hand, my mouth and my hair as it spills down over you. Your scent is both fruit-sweet and musky, earthy and erotic at once as I make a mush of the third berry.

Your shoulder blades stand up in sharp relief as you writhe under my mouth, and I hear you gasping something that might be my name. I close my fingers around the base of your cock, stilling your motion and reducing the tension in your needy flesh. The soft, strangled cries in your throat might be curses or thanks, I'm not sure, but I hold on until I'm sure you're under something like control again. All the time you struggle, I continue the languorous bathing of your spine. When I'm sure your twists are more want than desperation, I slick one last swipe of tongue over you then stand up and skin out of my pants.

You turn to look and I'm near to purring when I see the glazed look of need in your eyes. I kneel over your legs, laying my belly against your ass. A hiss of pleasure escapes me as you twist up against me. When I'm able to, I take your cock in hand once more and press the last berry against the back of your neck with my tongue. The juice rolls down your neck, disappearing under your throat and I suck the seedy flesh with rough efficiency, then slide an arm under your chest and pull you up onto your knees, thrusting myself against the curve of your hip as I chase the droplets down your neck and shoulder. You're rocking into me, my hand, my gurden, knowing just how to twist your body into my stomach and make me fair tremble with need for you. Finally I kneel, straddling one of your thighs and pulling you as tight against me as I can. I plunder your throat and chest for even the barest hint of berry, then plunge both hands into your hair and savage your mouth as I shift my gurden downwards far enough to thrust a stone-hard cock against your slick and hungry shaft.

You plant both hands in the middle of my chest and push me back, pinning me to the ground as you gather our cocks in your hand and stroke mercilessly. Deep growls pour out of you and down my throat as you thrust against me, stroke me, push my legs farther apart so you can take even more advantage of my hot and needy body. You break our kiss, turning your head to bite and kiss down my throat and shoulder and I wrap my arms around you, begging for more, harder, and you give it to me.

Your hands come up to seize my hair, tilting my head back to expose my throat. Your hips never still, thrusting unerringly against me, drawing hoarse, helpless cries of desire from me. Your mouth teases delicately at the skin under my ear before you sink your teeth into my earlobe and whisper

"Come for me, Kourt. Give me your come."

And I do. My shout frightens a bird into flight and I watch it, stunned as you ride my orgasm to your own completion. The pale curve of your shoulder moves in and out of my line of sight as a string of curses spill out of you and your seed pools with mine between us. Your breath is hot and warm against me as you struggle to slow it. Your heartbeat is frantic, but when you turn to me your smile is both sated and joyous. The kiss we share is long and slow, soothing the last of our shivers with the gentle unity of our embrace.

After a long interlude of soft petting, I reach out and grab my cloak, wrapping us both in its warm folds as we drift into a contented doze. The droning of insects and far-off birdsong is our only lullaby.

-end-



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