Master Apprentice
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There is something between my master and I. Always there.
Will this be the day? Will I turn to him and say the words that will free me? And if I do, what will he say in return, what will he do?
It is there every time we sit down to eat.
Will he sweep the dishes from the table, one long arm clearing the surface with a single sweep?
I can hear the sound of the crockery hitting the floor, breaking into a million pieces as the tile and earthenware collide; the higher sound of glass shattering across the same hard surface and the clang of the silverware.
I feel my master's hands as they circle my arms, almost bruising as he pulls me forward and shoves me onto the table, his passion out of control, lost under the influence of my words.
Fabric, no matter the type, makes a unique noise as it rends and I almost come from the sound as my leggings shred beneath his grip.
He steps away from me and the moves forward again, the heat of him burning against my exposed bottom, then pressing in, pushing into me and making us one.
It is there at the start of every mission.
Will he look at me across the room filled with dignitaries and make our excuses -a long flight, motion sickness, not yet used to the lower gravity?
I can see him walking from the room, signalling to me to follow and I step into place at his left, one step behind, as is his due. We walk along the halls toward our assigned quarters, sedate and calm until I am no longer sure that my words had been spoken aloud.
Then, without warning, he stops and pushes me against the wall, tongue penetrating my mouth as his body holds mine tightly against the wall. Cold, smooth brick against my back, heat of his body grinding against mine in front, the weight of our robes between us.
He tears himself away and takes my hand. Running at speeds no man can achieve, he pulls me along in his wake as he rushes to our quarters.
His bed or mine or the floor -it matters not as we frantically couple.
It is there at the end of every day.
Will he follow me into my room after our goodnights?
I can smell him in the small space I call my own, sharp sweat and spicy skin, the sweet scent of apples that permeate the soap he washes his robe and tunics in.
He lifts me, sweeping me off my feet holding me close. His mouth meets mine in a gentle kiss, our lips coming together and parting and again, in a soft dance.
When he finally lays me on the bed I am breathless. My body strains up, looking for his and I cry out as he slides his legs between my own, his torso covering mine.
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer still, wanting to be crushed beneath the weight of him, protected and wanted.
His hardness matches and meets my own as we strain together.
It is there at every homecoming.
Will he come to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my middle and pressing himself to my back?
I can feel the soft tickle of his beard against my skin as he nuzzles my neck. His breath whispers past my ears and along my cheek.
His hands roam over my body, touching me through my clothing, moving to my neck to find the edges of my tunic. He pulls them apart and his fingertips find my skin, burning me, destroying me even as they re-create me.
His hands move down, pushing under my belt and continuing down to the barrier presented by my leggings. I untie them as quickly as I can, pulling them open and then uncinching my belt, wanting nothing to hinder the progress of his hand as it travels my body.
I gasp and arch against him as my eager shaft is grasped by his equally eager hand. His own desire presses hotly against my bottom.
It is there in the dawning of each new day.
Will he stand there, still as the morning air, looking at me with wonder, joy dawning across his face as the dawn breaks over the sky?
I can taste his skin on my tongue as I kiss an lick the fingers of the hand I hold. I pull his long index finger in, sucking it, filling my mouth with the pure tang of him.
I taste his palm, his wrist, the bend of his elbow and his shoulder. The spot where his shoulder meets his neck is next and he shudders as I suck on the pulse point there.
As I lean my head back, mouth falling open, inviting his kiss, I let my torso sink against his. I am fiercely glad we sleep only in leggings, the feeling of flesh against flesh inflames me and our kiss is deep and long.
We fumble with each other's leggings until finally we are pressed tightly together, skin on skin from thighs to shoulders.
Each moment is fraught with promise, every second we are together is full of possibilities.
I have stayed quiet too long and my master turns to me, question clear on his face.
"Obi-Wan?"
I could say it now, let the words fall from my lips and follow the path they long to take, see where it leads. But I do not.
I have imagined a thousand different scenarios and they spread before me like a feast at a banquet, and I am not yet ready to let go of the possibilities that would be left untasted, unrealised.
I shake my head and smile. Maybe the next meal, the next mission, the next end of day, the next homecoming, the next dawn. Anticipation holds me firmly in its grasp and I am its willing prisoner.
End.