The Full Jedi

by Aya (AyaJJ@aol.com), Donna (GAmar@concentric.net) and Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)


SUMMARY: Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan and you. ABH, Non Q/O. Sexual situation. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan perform 'The Full Jedi' at a strip club. You get to watch.
ARCHIVE: Please. As often as possible, and wherever you like.




You let yourself be talked into going out to an all-male strip club for your birthday. It wasn't your idea; you certainly had other plans for your birthday like hiding in the closet and pretending that you're not suddenly three decades old, but when you're a member of a smut mailing list... well, these things happen.
Obviously you need to improve your choice in friends.
You catch a glimpse of the sign outside the club as you're dragged inside. ~The Full Jedi.~
Hmm. Maybe you have pretty good friends after all.
On your right, Aya leans into you and shoves a wad of dollar bills into your hand as she drags you into the noisy atmosphere of the club.
"What are these for?" you ask, even as ideas start flowing through your head.
"You'll figure it out."
"Ooh, boy."
The crowd at the club is mixed male and female, which doesn't make much sense to you at first. Until you see the half-naked man Aya is talking to.
Somehow, he manages to be both poised and relaxed, like a sleek panther about him. His upper body seems better sculpted than Michelangelo's David: broad shoulders, broader chest, and those arms. You catch yourself in a near-swoon at the fluid strength of his glistening biceps, and you follow the bend in his elbow as he reaches up to comb his massive hand through the silken mane flowing over his shoulders.
Aya finishes her conversation and steps back. She grins at you and puts a finger under your chin to close your gaping mouth. "That's just one of the waiters, dear. Wait 'til you see the floorshow."
"There's a floorshow, too?" you ask, momentarily stunned. "Why?"
Her grin grows wider. "C'mon. I just got us a table down front."
Your gaze is momentarily caught by a shadowed figure sitting well out of the way of the noise and bustle of the crowd. You see him more because of his stillness than anything else.
No one word can describe this man, except perhaps alive. He is very, vividly, intensely -- alive. Kinetic energy, ridging and rippling off everything about him, turning heads, and touching off sparks. And he isn't even moving... he's just sitting there. Looking. Watching. Waiting. Blue eyes cover the room with a carelessness borne of long command, elevating a mere glance to an art form.
I wonder who he is, you think, as you follow Aya.
Your heart is now thundering like the theme song to Bonanza in your chest as you draw closer to your table. Aya grins knowingly as the waiter she had been speaking to earlier returns with a low-ball glass on his tray.
"But Aya," you protest, "we haven't ordered our drinks yet."
"The gentleman in the corner sends his regards," the waiter explains, setting the drink down in front of you.
"What is this drink?" you ask immediately, noticing the froth of whipped cream on top.
"That's called a Screaming Orgasm," Aya smiles. "They're very good. I've had several in the same night once."
You take the glass. "Sounds good to me."
As the liquid flows down your throat, it occurs to you what a suggestive thing it is for a man to send a woman a drink called a Screaming Orgasm. He-- he wants me to have a...
You choke, causing Aya to pound you entirely too heartily on the back.
By the time you fend off Aya's enthusiastic 'assistance' and look back at the man, he is gone.
"Oh, nice first impression I just made," you cough.
"Look on the bright side," Aya winks.
"Bright side?" you shriek. "I just scared off a total stud-muffin and you say there's a bright side?!?"
"Uh-huh." She giggles. "At least he didn't give you 'Sex on the Beach'."
"Sex on the beach would be an improvement over choking," you mumble. Your other friend laughs.
You consider getting another drink -- possibly to dump on Aya's head -- when the stage lights dim.
A robed figure steps out into the dimness. As the lights come up, you see the dark brown of the robes, and gulp, remembering the name of the club. ~The Full Jedi~. Which Jedi, you wonder, is this?
Bass begins pounding out of the house speakers in what can only be described as a primal beat.
"No braid," your friend whispers.
You swallow hard. "Huh?"
"He doesn't have a braid. He's at least a Knight." Aya giggles. "Not that it matters. All I want to know is -- how big is his lightsaber?"
"Oh, please!" you sob. "Let's just go. I don't need this kind of humiliation!" But for some reason, you're riveted to your seat... You cannot... will not move.
Aya laughs and hands you another drink. "Relax. Enjoy yourself for once."
"I've had fun before," you assert a little more boldly than you expected. "It's not as if I'm a nun..."
"Ogling guys at the video store and renting 'The Red Shoe Diaries' is your idea of a hot time. C'mon. Drool like the rest of us."
It's starting to sound like a reasonable idea. After all, you are here.
Then you look up at the stage again.
The robed figure has cast his hood back, revealing a blonde head, with long hair, and a young face. 'Time of the Season' pulses out of the house speakers as he prowls the stage.
"A knight!" Aya hoots. "Go baby!"
You look at her in shock and cover your face with your hands. "I don't know her. I don't know her."
But you're peeking between your fingers, and you see it when he shrugs the robe off his shoulders in a graceful, careless gesture.
The voice in the song croons, "what's your name? who's your daddy?", and beside you, Aya lifts her drink and screams, "You are, Scott!"
You really don't know her now. Fortunately, the noise is the bar is enough that no one is paying attention to one random, screaming woman.
"Who the hell's Scott?" you shout back over the music.
Aya looks at you and laughs. "Never mind."
"Oh....My....God..." you gasp. "It's HIM... Aya... it's him!"
The knight must have heard you because he drops to his knees and crawls to the edge of the stage by you.
His tunic is off, and you can see the solid muscles of his chest. And the sweat.
You sit slack jawed, looking at the most perfectly masculine male you have ever seen in your life.
"Oh, my god," you repeat, pulling back in your chair. And while part of you wants to run, part of you wants to trace the beads of sweat that run over his chest.
He is nearly in your lap now... you can smell the musk of his body.
Oddly, you are near panic.
The rational part of your mind is telling you that the men here do this, and this is considered perfectly natural. The rest of you is trying to get up and run.
Aya nudges you and looks at the wad of cash in your hand.
"What?" you manage, trying to figure out what Aya is doing.
She shakes her head and holds out a five, then gestures towards you.
You look down at the wad of cash in your hand. "What? You want change for a five now?"
Aya ignores you. The knight, however, smiles wider as she slips the five into his waistband.
You begin to catch a clue, and unwind a handful of the dollars from your stash, and then... oh, god. He turns to you, and slowly, oh so very slowly, you slide your hand down his chest, down his stomach, and into his g-string.
Just one little scrap of cloth stands between you and his... um... lightsaber. Oh, and what a fine looking blade it is! With your hand in his g-string, you have good reason to know.
Aya cheers and claps wildly as the knight is now straddling your chair.
"Oh, wow..." you gasp, a nervous giggle catching in your throat. "I've spent a night in a chair, but am about to be spent by a Knight in a chair?"
When the knight finally lifts away from you with one last wiggle of his pelvis, you slide down into your chair.
"So," Aya asks, leaning toward you, "was that the guy who sent you the Screaming Orgasm?"
You blink. "No. It wasn't."
She hands you your drink. "Damn." Then she winks. "He seemed more like the blowjob type to me, anyway."
You take the drink absently. You saw the mysterious man just before the knight started stripping. You search for him now, and spot him in the wings of the stage.
Glaring at you.
"Uh oh," you whisper.
"What? You found him?" Aya asks, scanning the room.
Those eyes pin you into your chair, daring you to look away.
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and your mouth goes dry again despite the drink.
Aya finally sees what you're looking at. "I think you've made a conquest."
"Conquest," you echo... "Oh, I'd say I've been conquered..."
"Same difference," she answers with a wink. "All I know is I'll probably be catching a cab home."
You blush and manage to break eye contact with the man. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."
Aya waves the waiter over. "Let's have another round."
"I know what you're up to," you snort.
"If you didn't, I'd have to worry about your ability to count. How many drinks have you had so far?"
"Too many. You're trying to get me drunk so you can get me to make a fool of myself."
"Nah, I think you can do that without getting drunk," she teases.
"Now wait just a minute..." But you are interrupted by the intro music for the next act.
A high pitched scream pierces the air. Then Prince's "Gett Off" oozes out of the sound system.
Yet another dark-robed figure steps out, but this time, you recognize him as soon as he drops his hood. "Mace Windu?" you hiss, not quite able to believe a council member would do something like this.
You are not nearly as interested in this performance as you were the last. You have nothing against Master Windu in principle, but you would much rather see more of the man behind the curtain. Whoever he is.
Though after Mace sheds his tunic, you don't mind in the least.
Not surprisingly, several audience members jump to their feet and hurry to tip Mace.
You, however, wonder if you should, knowing that he is watching you.
But why should you be ruled by your fears? Isn't this night out for the sake of shedding inhibitions?
Aya has no such qualms, and indeed, seems determined to spend all of her paycheck here in one night.
Still... even with her example, you cannot bring yourself to.
And seeing the attention Mace is getting, you know your adulation won't be missed. You watch as Mace bends Aya back over his arm and kisses her in a showy movement that causes even more money to be flung in his direction.
Of course, Aya doesn't seem to mind the attention at all. She can be so wonderfully carefree and shameless.
You wish you were more like Aya. That does seem to be a rather passionate kiss that Mace just bestowed on her, after all. As it is, you are not made of the same stuff... or if you are, the packaging has settled too much for you to recognize the similarities in content.
Aya wanders back to her seat, beige sash draped around her shoulders, grinning like a wild woman. "Didja see that?" she asks.
"Yes," you reply dourly. "How could I not? You just slipped a council member the tongue. Another trophy to add to your collection," you sigh.
She looks at you, grinning. "Hey, at least it wasn't Yoda."
"If you've done that, don't tell me about it. I don't want to know."
"Well, no, but there was this time..."
You hold up your hand, interrupting her. "I said, I don't want to know. That's just disgusting."
She chuckles and sips her drink.
You consider finishing yours with one gulp, but you are determined to keep your dignity at least a little longer.
Mace leaves the floor, blowing kisses to the audience as the waiters make their rounds.
A faster rhythm begins, and you look up, recognizing the distinctive strains of Offspring. Someone's going to try to dance to this? They must be crazy!
As the next man leaps onto the stage, rolling forward, his cloak collapsing on the floor behind him, you see the padawan braid trailing outward and realize. Oh. Obi-Wan.
Aya jumps up quickly and drags you with her to the edge of the stage. "C'mon, or you'll get trampled."
Obi-Wan wastes no time, tearing the cloth from his skin and throwing it into the writhing mass of women at his feet, smiling seductively.
Cash in all denominations fly through the air as he gyrates for the crowd.
The women -- and some men, you note -- are singing along with the song, but the lyrics you hear aren't the ones you normally associate with the song.
"Give to me, Obi, uh-huh, uh-huh," they chant together, as they proclaim that Obi-Wan Kenobi is "pretty fly for a Jedi".
You find yourself singing along, caught up in the energy and emotions of the crowd. And he is a sexy dancer. When he goes down on the floor, hips rocking into it as though it were a living person, you find yourself clutching your money. You stop yourself only when you feel his gaze on you.
But before you have a chance to do more than glance at him, he disappears, leaving you disappointed. What was the point? If the mystery man was not going to approach you, you might as well stuff bills in Obi-Wan already well-stuffed g-string.
"Sith," you mumble before turning your attention to the stage again.
Standing next to the edge of the stage, Aya has Obi-Wan's braid wound around her fist. He is crouched down, and kissing her. How did she get to be so lucky? You see the ten dollar bill she's stuffing into his g-string, and the answer is revealed.
You dare to defy this mystery man at last, and approach to add your own contribution to Obi-Wan's g-string, then return to your seat. But not before taking a nip at the padawan's earlobe.
Take that! you think.
It takes a very long time for Obi-Wan to get clear of the stage. Everyone, it seems, wants to touch him and take a little bit of the padawan home with them. As far as you can tell, Obi-Wan doesn't mind in the slightest, and wouldn't mind if they picked him up and passed him around as a party favor.
Not that you blame them. He is a very sexy man.
You're sitting at your table when the fuss finally dies down, and you realize suddenly that Aya is missing. "Yeah, I knew it," you mutter into your drink, "I'm the one who's going to need a taxi."
You scan the room and see her at the wings, stealing another kiss from Obi-Wan, who has his arms wrapped around her waist and seems disinclined to let her go. She waves at you and disappears backstage as Obi-Wan picks her up and carries her off.
"Typical... Aya gets carried away, and I just sit here. I bet that guy's already bolted."
You wave down another waiter to order another round. Somehow, compared to the Jedi, the waiters no longer seem quite so attractive.
As the waiter delivers your drink, a slow, sensuous melody starts up, completely unlike anything you've heard so far this evening. A bluesy instrumental, it is out-of-place in the bright lights and semi-nudity.
You sit up in your chair, already anticipating something different, even though you don't know what.
The club goes silent. They sense something too. Or know something you don't.
A tall figure moves onto the stage. His entrance is a quiet walk, not Obi-Wan's flashy acrobatics or Mace's strutting.
Yet the sexuality emanating from his body is more intoxicating that all the drinks you've had tonight combined.
He stops and drops his cloak, slowly meeting your gaze. Your heart is racing in an instant.
Those eyes...
It was him all along.
In the bright spotlight, you know who he is, and watch, mesmerized as he begins to dance. And as he moves, you know that this is not for the rest of the audience. This is for you.
Perhaps they all think it's just for them. Qui-Gon Jinn has that feeling about him.
You try to speak his name, but watching is more absorbing, and you forget about speaking as he undresses for you. Only for you.
Strong hands move gracefully, unfastening his sash, unwrapping it with deliberate slowness. His eyes are fixed on yours, watching your reaction.
You catch your lower lip between your teeth, telling yourself to breathe. He is magnificent.
You know now that this is a kind of contest, that he will have more response from you than you showed the other dancers, that he will prove that he is the master.
There is no one to push you on or encourage you except yourself and his insistent stare.
You find yourself leaning forward in your chair, disregarding the table pressing into your ribcage as you edge toward him... toward the stage.
The first dance is now a pale memory hardly worth mentioning.
You realize dimly that the people around you are turning to look at you. They know that this is not an ordinary dance. But you are too entranced to care about your audience.
All that matters is Qui-Gon Jinn.
A whisper of a smile crosses his lips as he moves a bit closer to you.
His tunics hang open, giving you glimpses of tanned skin.
He reaches the edge of the stage and kneels, holding out one hand. You stand and slowly ease the cloth from his shoulders, your fingers skimming his skin lightly. As his chest is revealed, your hand reaches out of its own will, tracing from the collar bone to his navel. He leans forward into your touch for a brief moment, then sways back, leaving you feeling lost.
You want to touch him... you have to know that feeling again.
But he is out of your reach, and beyond your control. You breathe shallowly as you watch him walk away from you.
His torso is as beautiful from the back as the front, but you ache, wanting him to turn back, wanting very much for this to be real.
You don't like this feeling... being in control, then being out of control again. Or were you ever in control? Qui-Gon has orchestrated this night, from the moment you walked in. He sent you that drink, presumably knowing then that he would be doing this.
Then his apprentice distracted your companion... Yes, he knows exactly what he's doing.
The ache grows stronger as you wonder whether he does this every night -- picks someone out of the crowd to dance for, to make his performance that much more unique. You could not bear it if it was so.
"Whose party is this, really?" you wonder aloud. You will die of embarrassment if it turns out that this is simply Aya's idea of a birthday present for you.
You're drawn to the edge of the stage again, willing him to turn around. You have to know.
Finally he turns, and you see his leggings unfastened and open at the waist. Just a bit of encouragement would move them lower.
He comes over to you again, just out of your reach.
You lean a fraction closer, and brush your fingers across the fabric. Not quite close enough...
His smile taunts you as he slowly moves closer to you. He's close enough now for you to slide your fingertips into the waistband.
You could slip your hands inside and smooth that fabric from his hips, leaving him standing in just his g-string. For everyone to see.
Or... You brush your fingers across the bulge in the fabric, drawing a low moan from him that you don't think anyone else can hear. He grinds his hips into your hand, before catching it and bringing it up to his lips. His breath is hot on your fingertips. You curl your fingers around his and are rewarded with a soft kiss on the knuckles.
But is this all staged? You still have to know. This might be part of the act...
The tension is getting to you. You want to say that it doesn't matter, want to put your hand inside his waistband, and fondle him until he throws you over his shoulder and carries you off to ravish you in the coatroom.
He seems to pick up on this, and eyes the bills you forgot you were clutching. You uncurl your fingers and let him take the cash. Set-up! your mind screams. Then he takes one bill and boldly loops it over the waistband of your skirt. The second he slips slowly down your cleavage to lodge between your breasts.
At first, you don't understand, but if there were any doubt what the intense look in his eyes means, the whooping of the crowd settles it for you.
You don't want to know what they're shouting. You really don't. And even if you did want to know, it's becoming such a cacophony of sound that you couldn't make out one single phrase.
Qui-Gon pulls you onto the stage, grinding his hips against yours, and you forget about everything but the feel of him against you.
His face close to yours, he bares his teeth. "Mine." The statement is possessive, and there is no question in it.
You nod. "Yours."
His smile is triumphant, and he picks you up in his arms, and carries you off-stage.
Your last coherent thought is to remember to thank Aya for this idea.