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The Workout

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The exercise arenas were almost deserted at this late hour of the night. Even the few Jedi who liked to perform meditative katas in the main arena to soothe their thoughts before sleeping had retired to the peace of their quarters.

A single light still shone in one small room filled with exercise equipment designed to build muscular strength through repetitions of weights. Under the light, Obi-Wan waited, barely daring to breathe, tense with anticipation. In the distance he heard the soft slushing noise of the main door opening and closing, and with that trigger, began to press forward and back, the resistance from the machines working his chest and arm muscles.

Qui-Gon entered the exercise room, halting several paces away from Obi-Wan. Dressed in full Jedi uniform and cloak, Qui-Gon looked weary after his long journey, one of the few missions taken solo since their joining as Master and Padawan, over a decade ago. Weary and yet…excited, the fierce blue of his eyes dazzling despite the lines of tiredness etched on his forehead.

"Master, you're back," Obi-Wan said calmly, continuing the smooth motion.

"Yes."

"Your mission was successful?"

"Yes." Qui-Gon opened one palm to reveal an empty tube of medicinal lubricant, crumpled from being squeezed in his fist. "I discovered this waiting for me upon my return," he said, letting it fall to the ground.

"I must finish my exercise."

"Must you." Qui-Gon's response was equally calm as he shucked the brown cloak, folds of material dropping around his heavy boots. "And how much more do you have to do?"

"I'm only on my first set."

"Another two sets, then. You know your Master has established a training program of three sets to increase your physical stamina and strength." He undressed even as he spoke, the belt and sash joining the cloak.

"I always do what my Master desires." Obi-Wan's form and style were absolutely flawless, his motions excruciatingly slow and perfectly executed to optimize his workout.

"Do you." Qui-Gon's flat tone made the question a statement, as his tunics followed the other discarded clothing, cream piled on brown.

"I do." Ending his mental count, he added aloud, "Ten."

Qui-Gon didn't remove his boots but simply pushed his trousers and undergarments down his hips, the material catching on the boot tops and clustering around his knees. Taking his penis in his hand, he waited, their eyes locked on each other's with the burning intensity of a blaster's focusing beam.

After the proper resting interval, Obi-Wan said, "One," starting again, arms stretching the handles forward and back, chest expanding as he inhaled and exhaled. The heavy resistance from the computer controlling the machine had caused the beginning of sweat droplets to form on his forehead, under his arms, and on his chest, dampening the loose mesh of his exercise tunic.

Qui-Gon's hand moved with Obi-Wan, slowly caressing his penis, up, down, finding the drops of fluid at the head and coating his sensitive flesh with it.

Obi-Wan licked his lips, catching a bead of sweat on his tongue. He loved those hands, that penis. They matched so perfectly, big, solid, capable of both ferocious action and delicate maneuvers. Obi-Wan's breath came harshly, more harsh than the exercise required.

"Ten," he said with relief, wondering if the torment he was experiencing was worth the tease. Knowing that it was, because his Master would make the wait worthwhile.

All movement except the necessities of breathing and blinking ceased as Obi-Wan counted silently. He began to press the handles forward, but was stopped by Qui-Gon's, "No."

"No?"

"Your breath is erratic, Obi-Wan. Get it under control, or you will impede the effectiveness of the exercise."

"Yes, Master," he replied dutifully, forced to shut his eyes to accomplish the directive. The image of Qui-Gon, tall, proud, hand curled around his penis, naked except for those enormous boots and the clothing wrapped around his knees was burned into his brain, haunting him even with his vision denied. Finding a calm center was difficult, but not as impossible as disobeying a direct order from his Master.

Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open as soon as his chest relaxed, beginning his motion immediately. Qui-Gon's left hand joined his right, cupping his balls, rolling them as he stroked himself. Obi-Wan fought the instinctive groan at the sight, feeling his erection press against the clingy fabric of his shorts. Ten repetitions could have been a thousand, so much effort did they demand, an agony of time before he could be with his lover.

Hiding his relief at having reached ten, Obi-Wan forced his hand not to shake as he poked at the controls that would raise the handles from their positions at his side to above his head, allowing development of his shoulder and upper chest muscles. "Three sets in the lateral position next," he said, praising himself for the apparent cheerfulness in his voice.

"No."

"No?"

"No," repeated Qui-Gon, even as the handles obediently lifted up. He stalked forward. A lesser man might have appeared ridiculous, his cock heavy and jutting forward, brown fabric stretching with his stride. Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master, was intimidating in his ferocity and determination. Obi-Wan had teased him, made him wait, and now he would reap the rewards of his patience.

Intimidating and… sexy. Oh so sexy. Obi-Wan's clothes were wet, stained with sweat and the fluid from his intense erection, but nothing could cool the fire burning inside his body, the fire ignited by the lightest thought of Qui-Gon's love.

Not even a kiss was exchanged. Preparation was unnecessary and demand too great. Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan's knees, pulling him forward, using his powerful arms to flip his Padawan's slender body over, Obi-Wan's chest landing on the padded bench, his knees settling on the floor even as Qui-Gon ripped at his shorts, tearing the fabric from his body. Those big hands settled on his cheeks, spreading him open for Qui-Gon's entry.

Obi-Wan moaned at the feel of that immense length pressing inside himself, not too rough to hurt, but steady and forceful, allowing no resistance. Too long. Their time apart had been too long, and Obi-Wan craved this, needed to be claimed by his dominant Master, had deliberately staged this scene to achieve his objective of being possessed.

And possess him Qui-Gon did, loving the yielding clutching of Obi-Wan's passage on his cock, the lubricant easing his gliding demand until his balls touched Obi-Wan's ass. "To ten?" he asked.

Obi-Wan's, "No," was low and mournful, but did not deter Qui-Gon from his retribution as he pulled out slowly, too slowly for Obi-Wan's needs, exhaling, "One."

Under the bench, Obi-Wan's hands locked together, his braid between them. He pressed his face against the bench's slick plastic, trying to stifle the pleading whimper that emerged unbidden from his throat. The force was all he could desire, Qui-Gon insistent cock entering his body until fully buried, but the slow pace was unbearable on Obi-Wan's nerves already strained from their separation and his own deviousness.

Qui-Gon refused to increase his speed, smiling with savage satisfaction at Obi-Wan's whimpers, his chest rubbing on the mesh of Obi-Wan's shirt as the fabric of his pants scraped on the insides of Obi-Wan's knees. Obi-Wan's feet curled around the ankles of his boots, clinging desperately. Every muscle in both their bodies screamed for release, but Qui-Gon maintained an even pace.

"Two. Three. Four. Five." Deliberate. Careful. Slow. Determined.

At "Six," Obi-Wan exploded, his body thrashing, screaming with his pleasure, arching in ecstasy, his semen shooting at the floor as he came.

Satiated from his overload, Obi-Wan laid on the bench, limp and passive, arms and braid dangling. "Seven, eight, nine, ten!" were counted down, but rapidly now, in one continual string, as Qui-Gon pounded into Obi-Wan's tightness, shouting out the numbers as he shook with the pleasure of his own release. Exhausted, Qui-Gon rested his weight on Obi-Wan's back.

"We should leave now, Master."

"Leave?" Standing seemed a ridiculously difficult task to accomplish.

"The cleaner droid is about to enter, Master."

A Corellian curse escaped from his lips as Qui-Gon pulled out, simultaneously mourning the loss of Obi-Wan's warmth and swearing, scrambling to pull up his trousers. The cleaner droid was ruthlessly efficient, spraying water and soap on every surface before scrubbing up the sweat and aroma that lingered after hard exercise.

Obi-Wan was laughing as he grabbed Qui-Gon's cloak, covering his body while running out of the room just as the droid trundled in on its wheels.

Qui-Gon laughed with his Padawan, even as the cleaner droid caught him with the first spray. He may be forced to walk across the Temple sopping wet, but once he reached their quarters, he intended to make sure Obi-Wan helped him clean up. In the bath with hot sudsy water.

The Padawan may have initiated the workout but the Master would be the one to determine when it would finish.

~ end ~