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Title: Jedi Boots
Author: Haleth
Fandom/Pairing: Star wars, Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Boot!kink. Obviously.No plot at all. If you don't like boots, don't read it.
Disclaimer: Please, I beg of you, never let George Lucas know I did this. I live in terror of a horde of ill-behaved storm troopers showing up on my door step demanding that honour be satisfied.
The Jedi Kink Series: Jedi Choice, Jedi Binding Tape, Jedi Boots, Padawan Braid, Jedi Utility Belt, Jedi Robes, Jedi Sash
Jedi Boots
If it were anything else, it would be barely discernable. A faint pressure, a muted heat, an almost imaginary wetness. But since it is a tongue, and a tongue that is lapping across worn leather, it sears like the blade of a light saber.
A heavy, warm palm comes to rest on ruffled, russet hair. The answering whimper does not break the rhythm of the tongue as it traces the edges of tight straps, of lips as they loving caress the well-buffed calf, explore the folds at the ankle, taste the tang of the surface.
Nudity is not a strict requirement, but a lithe, toned Padawan deserves freedom from the stifling and modest robes of the order. Strong limbs, seasoned by a brief life of strenuous exercise, the sensuous arch of a back, athletic and refined, the delightful dip between the shoulders as the head lowers, mouth to toe.
Tongue pointed to follow the side welt with precision, flattened to lave the smooth vamp, curled to warp around every buckle and stitch.
There is an exquisite skittering of teeth across the back of the heel.
Fastidiousness. Patience. Determination. Attention to detail. These are the hallmarks of a well-trained Padawan.
“You may ride.”
“Thank you, Master.”
That is a heat all too discernable. The furnace between his legs as he settles his asshole at the very toe of the boot, balls draped over the vamp, straining cock pressed against the burnished shin, they all threaten to singe the foot under the leather.
Eyes squeezed tight against the blinding morning sunlight streaming through the window high above the city.
“Look at me, Padawan.”
Startled, glittering, bluer than the Coruscant sky has ever been.
It is a gentle rocking motion at first, mindful of injury to the delicate tissue. Youthful enthusiasm leads to more vigorous movements, and the cock begins to leak its sweetness. Cries of “Yes, Master” escape pursed, swollen lips.
“Enough.”
“Yes, Master.”
The painful retreat of that succulent ass is soothed by the return of the tongue, tracing the seams around the toe and meticulously bathing the thoroughly warmed leather with saliva.
“Did you get it all?”
“Yes, Master.”
“There is not one drop, not one trace of my seed on that boot?”
“Not one, Master.”
“And all traces of you are gone.”
Voluptuous licking of those well-used lips. “Yes, Master.”
“Kneel up, then.”
The clean, sculpted lines of a young torso straighten and present themselves. Sturdy shoulders, a chest bearing only a sprinkling of golden hair over the gentle swells of pectorals, topped by alert pink nipples. The darker line of hair leading down, between slender hips, ridges of muscle pointing to the root of the lively cock, which quivers in the air expectantly.
“You have done well, my Padawan.”
“Thank you, Master.” Breathless. Excited. The aristocratic accent not at odds with the perversion of the activity at all, but rather enhancing it exponentially.
The rasp of fresh linen as one leg is lifted, dull thud of the boot heel hitting the floor, the other leg placed across the thigh. The rearrangement of a sated cock beginning to harden again at the sight of all that barely restrained desire.
“You may touch yourself, Padawan.”
A heavy sigh of relief as nimble fingers curl around tortured flesh.
“You may come on the other boot, as long as you clean it up as thoroughly as you did the first one.”
“I promise, Master.”
“Good Padawan.”
If the Jedi council ever learned exactly how it was that Master Qui-Gon Jinn’s boots maintained their lustre, there would be hells to pay.
End
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