Not So Comfortable
Obi-Wan's
comlink chirped once: Siri's signal. The buyer must be in place.
Obi-Wan
smoothed his hands over the rough, unfamiliar civilian clothing he wore and
pasted a look of innocent uncertainty on his face. Without his beard he looked
younger -- almost a teenager again. No one would have trouble believing it was
his first time at a brothel.
He
wandered out of the alley and over to the guarded door. The Trandoshan bouncer
demanded his ID and a hefty payment; he handed over a credit chip that proved
he was legal, if only just, and able to afford the establishment's many
pleasures. The Trandoshan flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth at him and let him
pass.
The
atmosphere inside literally took his breath away. A miasma of intoxicants and
hallucinogens clouded the air. He blinked away tears. Crimson lights glowed and
flashed through the haze. Sentient and half-sentient beings of all sorts were
wrapped about each other, groping and coupling on the couches and booths. Others
danced on a small square of artificial stone to the beat of subdued jizz-wail
music. An occasional moan penetrated loud enough to be heard. In the farthest
corner from the door, a massive Hutt on a hoversled held court over an
entourage of servers and dancing girls. The Senator from Crakas was just taking
a seat in the midst of them.
Obi-Wan
stood in the doorway, feigning uncertainty, until a young, beautiful human
female with short-cropped blonde hair and very little clothing insinuated a
hand through the crook of his elbow and tugged him across the room to the bar.
"Buy
me a drink," she demanded softly, sliding a palm up and down his arm in a
sensual motion.
He
swallowed, feeling suddenly as uncertain as he pretended to be. It was only a
mission, he told himself. Not even a very difficult one. And he'd had the
easier part of it so far, running computer searches while waiting in a squalid
room and establishing his identity. Siri had been the one to get hired on as a
worker in the brothel. She had not balked at the assignment; she was a
consummate Jedi, wholly dedicated to duty. He could do no less than honor her
example with his own professionalism.
"What
are you having?" he asked.
Her eyes
flickered to the far corner, then back to him. Their eyes met. He felt a pulse
of urgency from her, but when she spoke it was languid, teasing.
"A slow, comfortable screw up against the wall."
Obi-Wan
blinked. "Beg pardon?" he said, a slight hitch in his voice.
She
smiled. "It's a drink ... or a position." Her eyes shifted again, a
little worried now. Her hand traced its way into his palm; her fingers made a
sign against his skin. Then the hand moved further down to cup his genitals
through his pants. "You pick."
Ah. So
they would have to go through with this after all. Very well.
He let
himself respond to her touch. His penis twitched against her palm. He placed
his hand against the thin fabric of her top, pebbling the nipple beneath his
fingers. He felt her heartbeat quicken. "I didn't come here to
drink."
"Good."
She tugged his arm again, and he followed her as she wound among the tables and
across the room to a bare patch of wall near the Hutt's corner.
She backed
up, pulling him against her, pulling his head down to her breasts. He mouthed
her nipple through the cloth, then slid the fabric
aside so he could lick the hard nub. She tasted of soap and spice. Her hand was
busy inside his pants, working him to full hardness. It didn't take long; it
had been quite a while for him. He clamped down on his arousal and rose up to
whisper in her ear. "If you want me to last, you'd better slow down."
"You
set the pace then, lover," she teased, and bit his earlobe.
He stifled
a groan, then realized he didn't have to hold back. He
gave himself over to the pleasure of her mouth, nipping and licking his neck,
the hinge of his jaw. She rucked up her skirt, lifted one leg to wrap around
his thigh, and in one smooth motion shifted to impale herself
upon him.
He moaned
and buried his face against her shoulder. Force, it was good. He shouldn't be
thinking of it; he should be concentrating on the mission, watching for danger,
but it was hard to have a coherent thought when he was buried deep in slick,
tight heat.
Her hand
settled, warm and gentle, against the back of his neck, and he realized she
wanted him to stay that way so she could have a good view of the Senator and
the Hutt. He started a slow, deep thrusting, and concentrated on making it
last. He couldn't see what she was watching, didn't know how long it might
take.
A slow
screw up against the wall wasn't all that comfortable, no matter what the drink
was called. He had to keep his knees bent to maintain the right angle to slide
into her, one hand holding her thigh, the other braced against the duracrete
behind her. His back was bent unnaturally to keep his face buried in her neck. He
longed to straighten up for a moment, to let go of her leg, drop her to the
floor, and just drive himself into her -- hard and fast. Instead he focused on
moving slowly, steadily, in and out, in and out. He wasn't supposed to notice
how exquisitely tight she was, how the slick friction wrapped around his
painfully hard sex, the warmth of her body, the beat of her heart, the smell of
her hair, the taste of her skin. His lips felt swollen. He wasn't supposed to
want to kiss her.
He
struggled to regulate his breathing, slow and deep, to match his thrusting.
He
extended his senses outward, trying to distract himself from how good it felt. He
needed to remember his duty. This was a mission, after all. Nothing
more to it than that.
At once
his mind was flooded with images of dozens of beings coupling, fondling,
stroking, moaning, coming. He groaned and withdrew his
mind from the crowd. Force, that had been a mistake.
He hoped
the Senator would hurry. He could feel his penis growing even bigger and
stiffer, filling and stretching Siri's passage almost to the point of pain. He
hoped he wasn't hurting her. His balls ached. He took a deep breath and let it
out, forcing himself to keep the thrusting slow and deep. It was like a mantra
he said in his head: slow and deep, slow and deep.
Siri's
hand slid into his hair. Oh, but that felt good, too, and he shouldn't be
thinking that, shouldn't be wanting more of her touch.
Let it be over soon, he thought. I need ... Oh, Force, how I need.
Siri's
hands tightened in his hair and tugged, hard. That was the signal. He let go of
her leg and stepped back slightly. His penis slipped free, bobbing in the cold
air. Both of them gasped.
She
straightened her clothing. He stuffed himself into his pants, pressed a point
under his scrotum that released some of the pressure and made walking bearable.
His hands were slick with her juices. He could smell their musk lingering in
the air. He chided himself silently. Those weren't the details he should be
focusing on.
Siri took
his hand and turned to follow the Hutt, who had left through a back exit. Their
task was to find out who the Senator was selling secrets to. The Hutt was
almost certainly not the real buyer. This mission had just got more
complicated.
Obi-Wan
let himself be led along, keeping up the charade as far as the door. He was
grateful for Siri's focus, her dedication to duty. He was still trying to find
his center. Mentally he shook himself. He should be thinking about the mission,
not the look in her eyes when he'd pulled out of her.
Once they
were under cover of darkness in the alley Siri released his hand. He let her
get a few meters ahead, then raised his hand to his face and inhaled her scent.
Stealthily he stuck out his tongue to taste her juices, just once, before
turning his mind again to the mission.
Emila-Wan Kenobi