***********
Title: Study Breaks, an ABH
Author: BJ Stahl
***********
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The lone scholar in the math lab is paid a
visit. So plotless
it's
scary.
Archive: Hell sure why not?
Feedback: It validates my existence as a human
being.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
No profit. Don't sue.
---
The
current song on your Discman ends . . . prematurely. "Shit!" you snap
as the
Batteries are Fucked light blinks on.
And of course, you have no
spares.
You
heave a sigh, plopping your head into your hands, exhausted physically,
mentally,
spiritually. The page of figures under
your elbows mocks you
still
with answers that make no sense. And
somehow, you have to *make* them
make
sense before class tomorrow.
"Jesus
Christ, what time is it?" you ask the empty classroom that serves as
the
study lab for higher math classes. It's
past hours, yeah, but the door
wasn't
locked so you slipped inside and set up shop.
You've been here for
hours,
banging away at numbers that don't exist, except in complex, messy,
fucking
*stupid* theory. You slide off your
glasses and rub the bridge of
your
nose. Pain settles into your head. <<I am not getting a migraine. I
am not
getting a migraine.>>
Well it
sort of works. Instead of a migraine,
you have an intense tension
headache,
one that makes your nasal cavity feel about four sizes too large
for
your face.
In
answer to your rhetorical query, it's 11:07 PM. You glower at the
oversize
clock as you realize you've been here arguing with a calculator for
almost
seven hours. "Motherfuck. And I'm not even fucking *done* yet."
You
gulp a few aspirin from the traveling office (duffel containing most of
your
scholastic and professional life) and lean back over the page.
Let's
see, X plus 1 squared gives me X squared plus two X plus two and . . .
waitaminute,
those aren't like terms. Dammit! Where'd I fuck up?" You
flip
through the pages of your text, hunting up the example problems. You
mutter
numbers, variables, and assorted vulgarities under your breath as you
work
out the problem like a seamstress works through a difficult knot in her
thread.
You
finally get your calculator to spit out a nice, real, recognizable
number
and your write it beside X equals with a flourish. "Ha! Another
victory
for truth, justice, and the American way!" Just one more to go.
One
more stinking domain and range problem and you're caught up and ready.
Praise
God and pass the cigarettes.
Fifteen
minutes later, you gently place your calculator down, calmly slide
your
notebook away, carefully pick up your pencil, and start breaking.
After
you've annihilated your plain ol' No. 2, (childish and rude, but it
makes
you feel better) you gather up the remains and dump them in the
wastebasket. Heaving a weary sigh, you pick up your spare
clicker pencil
and try
again. Ten minutes after *that*, you
realized you dropped a zero
somewhere
and you erase the whole thing en masse, obliterating your already
suffering
eraser. The pounding in your sinuses
and temples gets worse,
making
thought difficult. <<At the rate
I'm going, I'll be here 'till
fuckin'
New Years.>>
A long
arm, attached to the body of someone standing behind you, arches
around
and snaps your book shut with a flick of a wrist. The heavy thud! of
the
high glossed pages makes you jump in your chair.
"Enough."
Your
head whips around.
Okay,
now you *expected* one of the janitors or campus cops, eyes dull with
that
I'm-only-alive-because-of-bad-coffee look, informing you that it's
almost
midnight and the campus closed hours ago, so why aren't you hauling
your
pretty little ass home?
Instead,
you're craning your neck to meet the lake-blue eyes of Qui-Gon
Jinn.
You
suck in a gasp, your heart lurching into your throat and hanging there,
beating
hard enough to make your skin throb.
The sudden spike in your blood
pressure
inflames your headache. Spots flare
before your eyes.
Qui-Gon
brings his right hand over to touch your face, fingertips brushing
your
forehead just below the hairline. He
draws his rough fingertips down
your
face, increasing the contact as they slide down your cheek, fingers
straightening
along the bottom of your jawbone.
Taken
aback by his shockingly intimate caress, you don't immediately realize
what
he's done. The bright flashes and
pounding agony of your life's worst
tension
headache are fading. You cry out in
wonder and relief as the pain
drains
away.
He
smiles, kneeling before you as a vassal to his queen, warm hand not
moving
from your face. You start a little as
your own hand is engulfed in
his,
his grip warm and firm. He cups your
chin over the bend of his index
finger
and locks your eyes with his. You watch
the tiny muscles of his eyes
contract,
sense the gathering of his will, and he slips inside you, sending
soothing
energy through the aggravated tissues in your head. The pain dies.
This time for good.
You
sigh. Exhaustion from your battle with
the forces of numbers that make
no
sense crowds back into your body, soaking every cell with lead. His mind
eases
away and he sighs. "That's
better. You were giving me a
headache."
His
voice melts over you, weakening the conviction that you've just lost
your
fucking marbles. "Thank you,"
you breathe softly. With your headache
gone,
your sex drive cheerfully reasserts itself, blasting a mental picture,
of you
lying beneath this man's powerful body with your legs wrapped around
his
waist and your fingers tangled in his hair, into your mind's eye.
You're
too tired to completely suppress such thoughts right now and guilt
trembles
in your heart at the dismayed look on the Jedi Master's face.
After
what he's done for you, you have no right whatsoever to think of him
in such
base terms. No right at all. None.
A
notion you promptly toss to the winds when he leans forward and kisses
you,
his lips teasing at yours. You open
your mouth to accept his tongue,
sweeping
through your mouth. The hand cupping
your chin traces along your
jaw and
opens, palm flat against your plaited hair, holding your head
against
his. Your eyes drift closed as heat
rises in your body. Your free
hand
drifts up to his face and you run the backs of your fingers over his
wiry
beard.
You
nearly cry when he moves away. Qui-Gon
takes your other hand and holds
them
both in his, bringing them to his face, lavishing kisses over the
knuckles. "You should trust your instincts, my
beauty," he murmurs,
sapphire
blue eyes sparkling.
The use
of the possessive, the lust in his face . . .
"Wait just one
goddamn
minute!" you cry, trying to pull your hands free. How weak and
shrill
you sound; no authoritative snap from a self-possessed woman here,
just
the tinny whining of a willful child.
And
your hands aren't going anywhere. If
anything, his grip is hard.
Viselike. "Let go of me!"
"You
need this," he states flatly. He
kisses you again, a brief press of
damp
flesh against damp flesh. Energy sparks
from deep inside you,
resonating
throughout your body. All the will you
have to command you've
already
used, leaving you defenseless against the powerful sensation. "And
so do
I," he finishes against your lips, his voice husky, almost a growl.
With
the same sense of relief a suicide must feel when they step off the
bridge
and into the hands of fate, you return his kiss, red heat racing
through
your body. He releases your hands and
you wind your arms around his
neck,
tipping your head back so he can deepen the kiss. Desire . . .
insanity
. . . dear God, you're losing your mind.
You
sense rather than hear his small laugh . . . inside your head.
>>Gaining mine, my darling, not losing
yours.<<
Qui-Gon's
mouth leaves yours and trails down your neck, leaving a path of
golden
fire as it stops at the neckline of your T-shirt. His teeth scrape
against
your collarbone. You gasp, a high,
screamy sound amplified by the
acoustics
of the classroom.
Which
makes you realize this is a *highly* inappropriate, (not to mention
damned
uncomfortable) place to tear off clothing and screw until crosseyed.
"You
worry about propriety far too much," he observes, rising easily to his
feet. You break speed records packing up your
stuff, your body an open sore
of
sensation. The feel of air on you skin
is a feather caress; the easy
weight
of you clothes, intolerable chafing.
You
snap the fasteners on your bag shut.
His hands settle on your
shoulders,
each one spanning the distance from neck to point easily. His
fingers
clench and loosen, rubbing firmly on your knotted muscles. You
wince,
so tense his ministrations hurt.
His
right hand leaves your shoulder and a moment later it reappears within
your
line of sight, holding a thick square of soft black cloth. He unfurls
it into
an abbreviated sash about two feet long by four inches wide. A
blindfold.
Fear
arcs through you, saturating and supplementing your desire. Maybe it's
because
of your lifelong vision problems; but whatever the reason, the idea
of
blindness terrifies you. He's asking,
demanding really, a profound
gesture
of trust. Especially considering you've
known him all of fifteen
minutes.
Qui-Gon's
other hand hooks off your glasses. The
world fuzzes out, near and
far
alike retreating into a muddy, florescent lit haze. The muscles around
your
eyes and nose relax and your eyes drift closed. He leans over, his
warm
breath tickling your ear in a rush of butterfly wings. He doesn't
articulate
it, not even in your mind, but his entire being begs for your
trust.
You
feel the fabric in his hands press against your eyes and curve around
your
head. He knots the blindfold behind
your head with a yank hard enough
to rock
your head and moves away, leaving you sitting in your uncomfortable
student's
chair, blind and effectively helpless.
You
hear your bag rustle as he takes it off the table. He takes your hand
and
guides you to your feet and out of the classroom (after a minor mishap
when
you whack your hip on the teacher's desk).
---
The
Jedi master leading you carefully, you walk down the streets, steps
staggered
on the steep hill downtown sits on.
Your sense of direction is
fairly
good, and you can picture in your mind whereabouts you are, but
imagining
and seeing are two different things.
He
pauses at the curb, gauging traffic before crossing the street. The
change
in traveling surface, sidewalk to asphalt, vibrate up your legs.
Your
heart pounds in your ears, and your breath is hitching in agitated
gasps. You're totally dependent on him for your
safety. It's a new
feeling,
one you're not entirely sure you like.
You clutch his fingers in a
deathgrip,
appalled by how sweaty your hands are.
Dee-sgusging.
You're
in front of the art museum now, if his low advisement to duck is any
indication. Crabapple bushes brush over your head. You try picturing where
you are
exactly, on the corner, he's slowing down, letting you pick your way
over
the broken potholes as you cross another street. Past the parking lot,
another
street, down another slope, past the Shrine to the Money Gods (Old
Kent
Bank and Trust). The clock above the
bank bongs the 1-2-3-4 beat of
fifteen
past the hour, pressing sound into your oversensitive hearing.
The
pair of you cross another street and turn left. The sidewalk here is
studded
with brick; another new surface for your feet to learn. The scent
of
running water from the nearby river whiffs in your nose. You shiver, the
cold of
the autumnal night seeping through the thin material of your
T-shirt. To your *utter* embarrassment, your nipples
are peaked and hard,
advertising
to the world that you're wearing your 'day off' nylon underwear.
He
stops and pulls you into his arms, warming you with his body heat. Your
head
barely tops his shoulder and you swallow.
You're used to being towered
over;
your uncle's a good six-two; but you're not used to being dwarfed.
The
thick layers of his clothes don't entirely hide the powerful shift of
his
chest muscles as he engulfs you in his arms.
Your throat rattles on
your
gulp. What does he plan to do to you?
"You'll
be warm soon, I promise," he murmurs down at your hair. With that,
he
leads you through a door.
You
mentally retrace your journey, using the college and the clock as
reference
points. You pale when you realize
you're in the city's five-star
lodgings,
housed in an elegant black glass skyscraper.
You've only been
here
once, before the management decided it wasn't couth to let nicely
dressed
riffraff in to listen to the folks playing jazz in the lounge. You
and
your sister ran wild that night, marveling at the casual sumptuousness,
soaring
as high as the glass paneled elevator would go, drinking in the view
of the
city from 29 stories up.
What a
sight the two of you must make; tall, imposing Jedi (he must be using
a Mind
Trick to keep folks from thudding in his wake, you think) in robes
and
tunic leading a blindfolded girl wearing jeans, T-shirt and ratty
sneakers
through the lobby. Your imagination
paints the picture for you;
green
carpet deep enough to dogpaddle through, huge, three-tiered fountain
soaring
ten feet into the air, a chandelier the size of a walk-in closet
lighting
the area, people dressed for an evening out littering the floor. A
tall
man in a brown robe with the bearing of a king striding through them
all. And you clinging to his hand, your red shirt
a beacon to the gossip
prone.
You stop
when he does. Your hand touches smooth
stone as he asks for a
room,
casual as you please. The fellow at the
desk is cordial and polite,
considering
his customers. You listen to the
exchange of money and room
access.
That
done, he takes your arm and leads you away.
The light *ding* noise
tells
you you're at the elevators. It also
alerts you to a few base facts:
one,
you're going to a hotel room with a strange man, two, said strange man
could
kill you with his bare hands, three, this might be, (hell it *is*)
your
last chance to tear loose from his grasp, rip off the blindfold, and
run
like fucking hell. Every hall in your
mind echoes with the cry to do
exactly
that. Get away from this fuck before he
does any permanent damage.
Your
muscles tense, getting ready to tear rip and run. Qui-Gon, however,
intercepts
your thoughts and his hand clamps down on your arm, thumb and
forefinger
digging into your tricep muscle with enough force to make you
wince. >>*You* are not going anywhere,<<
he snaps into your thoughts.
You
don't bother testing his grip; unless you want to leave a chunk of your
arm
behind, you're staying put. Your heart
sinks with dread and the
question
presents itself again, *what is he going to do to you?!?*
Your
feet numb, you step onto the waiting elevator.
The feel of the car
rising,
on top of your unease, makes you feel queasy.
Now that you're in a
confined
area (unless you smash through the glass paneling and splat on the
street
below) he lets go of your tricep and settles his arm around your
shoulders. Either you have the elevator to yourselves
or he's got a lot
more
chutzpa then you gave him credit for; his hand slides down your back,
caressing,
tracing the outline of your bra strap.
A fingertip traces the
hooks
that hold the clasp in place. His hand
arches across your ribs, his
fingers
light weights on the outer swell of your left breast. The very tip
of his
middle finger touches the peak of your nipple and you gulp. Arousal
rises
another notch. Fluid oozes from you,
seeping into your underwear.
The
elevator stops and he leads you to the suite, swiping the keycard the
desk
clerk gave him through the lock. With
that wonderful
I'm-stepping-into-the-gas-chamber
feeling tying your belly in knots, you let
him
lead you inside.
Your
imagination goes into overdrive, picturing a simple, luxurious living
area,
with couches arranged into a conversation circle. No TV, not here,
it's
probably in the bedroom. <<Bedroom
. . . holy Jesus . . .>>
His
hand vanishes, leaving you alone, disoriented, scared, aroused, and
tired. <<Okay, ladies and germs, let's do a
little recap of my night so
far;
snatched away from diligent work on math by man whom I've been having
nasty
dreams about for months and, ha ha, stupid me, I let him blindfold me
and
bring me to a place where no matter how loud I howl it's pretty much a
guarantee
no one will listen. Can I have my heart
attack now or do I
wait?>>
His
hands gently grip your shoulders from behind again, pressing you down
until
you bend your knees and sink into a soft leather sofa. "I'll be back
shortly,"
he says softly, from somewhere to your left.
He
doesn't leave right away, just stands there, watching you. You finally
sense
him depart, doing God only really knows what.
Calling his Padawan to
brag
about his latest conquest perhaps?
You
sigh. That was mean and nasty and
unwarranted. Besides, the leather
under
you is soft, welcoming, and right now you just want to sink into it
and
sleep for about ten years, aroused or no.
You're too tired to think
properly
anyway.
You
doze for a few minutes, drifting through the darkness. You start when
your
foot rises into Qui-Gon's grip, as he slips the bows of your shoelaces
apart
and eases off your sneaker. He peels
off your sock, baring your feet
to his
rough hands. You stifle a giggle as his
fingers trace the flat.
"Hmm,
ticklish," he muses, drawing the tips of his fingernails over your
sole. You bite the insides of your cheeks as his
lips, ringed with bristly
hair,
brush over the arch and come to rest on your ankle. He gently slips
his
finger between your toes, eliciting gasping giggles from you. Giggles
that
turn moany when a wiggly wetness slips between your two littlest toes.
And
slips out again. "Sneaker."
You
blush. Of course; you're feet haven't
been outside of your shoes all
day.
He sets
down your bare foot and removes your other sneaker and sock.
Starting
at the outsides of your ankles, he slowly strokes his big hands up
the
outsides of your legs. You squirm, the
heat of his touch seeping
through
your jeans. Okay, so maybe you aren't
quite *that* tired.
"That's
good, little girl. The night is
new," he murmurs from his perch at
your
feet. Up his hands press, against your
hips, around your waist, and
finally
onto your straining breasts. You sigh
as his hands press against
your
nipples. Almost as an afterthought, he
pulls your shirt from where
it's
tucked into your jeans.
Qui-Gon
retreats again, leaving you to melt into the leather couch and long
for the
feel of his hands. Hands, body, mouth .
. . cock. Anything and
everything,
he's making you ache.
A deep
'ha!' startles you. "The Force
knows I've been trying," he comments.
His mouth settles on yours as his hands
settle on your wrists, keeping
your
hands pressed into the couch. His
tongue lazily traces the inside of
your
mouth, seeking out every rough and smooth spot. You throw yourself
into
his kiss, sliding your tongue under and over and around his.
"Let
me see you," you beg around his mouth.
"Not
yet," he commands, his mouth and mustache moving down to the sensitive
spot by
your ear. He scrapes the edges of his
front teeth over your skin,
making
you quiver. You'd swear you're burning
alive under his touch.
He
backs away again. You try to grab him
around the neck and return the
kiss,
but your hands stay put. More Mind
Tricks. "I don't want you to move
yet my
darling. Just lie back. Relax."
The hem
of your T-shirt moves as his hands caress your waist. You whimper
as your
hypersensitive skin buzzes under his palms.
He pulls off your
shirt,
unfastens your jeans, hoarsely orders you to lift your hips as he
shucks
them off your legs.
Your
hips jerk hard against his Force-assisted restraint when he favors your
damp
crotch with a light kiss, and keep jerking when he sneaks his hand
under
your panties and strokes your clit with a sure touch. You feel
lightly
hairy skin against your bare leg and your lust spikes in a blood red
flash
when you realize he must be naked.
You
cringe a little when his finger presses into your wetness. "Oh dear,"
he says
lowly, dismayed.
"What?"
you squeak, trembling around his hard finger.
Yeah it's been a
while
since you've had sex, well okay, maybe more than a mere *while*, but .
. .
"I'm
going to have to go slower than I thought, little one, that's all." He
bends
his finger and you gasp. "You're
much too tight for me right now."
Another
finger joins it's brother, stretching your channel. The pain bleeds
into
pleasure as your muscles part.
He
plants his face in your crotch, lapping at you through the thin nylon
panties. You stifle a full-throated groan as he
rotates his fingers roughly
inside
you, coaxing your muscles apart. Waves
of ecstasy flood your body,
making
every cell sing. The fact that you
still can't move makes it worse,
ever so
much worse.
His
free hand latches onto your breast, pinching and pulling your nipple
through
the fabric of your bra. You whine
through clenched teeth, unwilling
to
completely voice your lust. You don't
have a choice about it when a
third
finger presses into you, wiggling and working with it's mates to make
you
come your fucking brains out.
It
finally becomes too much to bear and your body spasms, sparks flying
behind
your eyes, every part of you screaming in sweet release. You try to
arch,
fighting his hold on you, your muscles almost tearing loose from their
moorings.
When
you come back to earth his hand's still inside you, all four fingers
held
flat. You squeal as he turns his wrist
sharply and retreats, leaving
you in
the dark and damn near dead.
Qui-Gon
places each hand on your temples and slides the blindfold off. You
blink
your eyes open, taking in the suite (much like you imagined it) and
the man
before you, hair loose and awry, eyes flaming with naked need.
He
slides the hairtie off the end of your plaited hair and quickly works the
thick
braid loose, plunging his fingers through the thick mass, kissing you
urgently. You wrap your arms around his neck and your
legs around his waist
as he
stands and sprints to the bedroom, throwing your interlocked bodies
onto
the bed hard enough to knock the breath out of you.
He
curls his fist into the waistband of your panties and rips them off,
flicking
them out of his way with an easy toss.
You arch, reach behind you
and
unclasp your bra as his mouth comes down on your sternum, nuzzling,
kissing
and nipping, teasing you with the different textures of hair, lips
and
teeth. You press your hips up against
his waist.
"Do
you want me?" he growls.
"That
a rhetorical question?" you pant, watching his body, every inch a
testament
to male perfection.
"Ask
me, call my name."
"Qui-Gon,
please," you beg. "Please,
now, I need you . . ."
Satisfied,
he takes his cock, stained red with need, and places the tip at
your
cleft. With a powerful, steady,
contained thrust, he eases inside you.
You
scream now, Christ he's huge! Thanks to
his earlier ministrations it
doesn't
hurt, much, but the size, you're seeing stars.
His moan joins your
cry as
you squeeze him, relaxing as your muscles stretch.
It
takes a minute before he regains enough presence of mind to speak. "Do I
hurt
you?" he croaks.
"Not
right now," you breathe, wrapping your legs firmly around his hips.
He
shifts, bracing his weight on knees and left arm. His right locks around
the
small of your back. "Hold onto
me," he orders, his body tensing.
You
wrap
your arms around his neck and glue your lips to his, gasping when he
slowly
lets himself slip out of you. And
pushes back, splitting you again.
And
again. You cry out "Ave
Maria!" against his throat, kissing the skin
through
the light shadow of hair. Further
speech eludes you and you settle
for
moaning into his neck, your breath playing along the shoulder muscles.
His
pace increases, his restraint snapping under the force of your cries.
His
hips piston against yours, rubbing every last micrometer of his cock
inside
you. Once or twice, he shifts his
strokes to hit that little spot
inside
you've heard so much about. You howl as
it explodes, sparking your
pleasure
higher and harder. A predatory growl of
approval rumbles up his
throat.
One by
one, your other senses wink out, until all you can feel is his length
inside
you, grinding, slipping, driving you bonkers.
Compared to what you
feel
coming, your last climax was nothing; a pinprick, as opposed to being
flayed
alive.
With a
screaming, moaning sob, you finish, your body exploding in an intense
flash
of light. You constrict around him,
feeling his heartbeat in his cock
as it
swells and shoots liquid fire. Dimly
you feel his arms wrap around
you as
he collapses, holding you hard enough to leave marks, crying your
name
into your ear. It's the sweetest sound
you've ever heard and you cling
to it
as you spiral down into unconsciousness . . .
---
(ducks)
-BJ