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They never really discussed it, the single most humiliating night of Anakin’s life. Obi-Wan tried, when they first boarded their ship and Anakin limped to the cockpit from the bone deep ache of his backside and legs.
“Anakin,” he had said hesitantly, in that careful tone he used for shell shocked children and abused animals.
“I’m fine,” he had forced through his teeth, feeling nothing of the kind. “I’m sorry, master—I didn’t—can we please not talk about it?”
“I feel that we must—you’re hurting—I hurt you—”
“We did what we had to save lives, there’s nothing else to talk about.”
By the stars did he not want to talk about the dried come down the inseam of his master’s pants, or the way he had moaned when he gave in and ground his cock in his master’s lap. And really, he would rather face the entire Separatist army and the rise of a Sith Empire before holding a conversation about why having his ass publicly beat sent his cock hard to begin with.
Obi-Wan had quieted and felt of nothing but writhing guilt and worry through the force, the walls mounted between them in the hull of Ambuscade’s ship slackened now that Anakin wasn’t clawing at them in blind panic.
He did force Anakin to the healers when they came home to the temple, in the brief lull they possessed before they returned to their freshly appointed legions on opposite ends of the Galaxy and faced the increasingly familiar rhythms of war. He had explained his bruises, clipped and with minimal detail. That he came from it, enjoyed it in some twisted up way, never passed his lips to a single soul.
In time the bruises lost their ache, the mottled flush of blues and purples fading to green and yellow. Days and then weeks saw the bruises fade completely, and with them the ever present, burning humiliation from that night faded to something more bearable. The sting of his horror, the sour bite of his own shame, they still clung to him, always there just like his other hurts. But with how little he saw his master and a legion to lead and battles to fight, that horror merely warred with other more present horrors in his mind.
And then his own Padawan walked into his life and old hurts fell even more to the wayside. Months later, the strain between he and Obi-Wan finally loosened its chokehold on him, and he could again smile and look his master in the eye, could joke and spar and even touch him lightly as he used to. Obi-Wan kept silent, never breathed a word as he clearly, desperately wanted to, but Anakin could taste his relief as a physical thing, so strong in the force did he exude it.
That weight sat between them, ever present and stifling, but neither of them could bare the other’s emotional separation on top of the physical required of generals at war. His own desperation for his master in his life allowed him to shove the memories deep and bolt them down in the darkest recesses of his mind that never saw the light of day. The swooping thrill of want from the pain—the humiliation—they went in the same locked box as his mother, his hand, and Tatooine.
Only on especially hard days after truly heinous battles, when he felt weak and tired and worn so thin, he felt he could fade to nothing, did he unlock the box and bring out thoughts of laying across his master’s lap and taking a beating. Because when he did, the end result always came to him on his stomach in his bunk with fingers shoved inside himself. Many times, he still wore his armor and the smoke and sweat and blood of battle, and he always ignored the acrid scent of ion on his tunics to mull over thoughts of another far more bearable pain than the present one.
On the hardest days of all, when he lost too many men, made mistakes with costs he agonized over, when the terror of losing Ahsoka or Obi-Wan burned too hot, he fell into his bunk and brought his metal hand against his own backside and rutted against the sheets. In the strangest way it settled the disquiet of his mind, the pain—the punishment grounding him and bringing its own unfathomable, jolting, twisting pleasure and relief.
He didn’t let himself think about it outside of his bunk, didn’t dwell on the churning, tumultuous want crashing around inside himself. So he didn’t think much about why the council requested both he and Obi-Wan for a mission with high enough priority they pulled them both from the front. These sorts of undercover missions cropped up rarely in the middle of an intergalactic war but even as soldiers and generals, other matters pulled them in opposing directions, tugged them towards the Jedi’s purpose before the war.
“We would not…ask this of you, Skywalker, if the stakes were not so high.” Master Windu said carefully, clearly discomforted.
His ears rang as if someone had thrown a concussion grenade into the council chamber, and Obi-Wan blinked slowly in his own newly appointed Council seat, in the way Anakin knew meant he felt just as thrown.
“It’s not that, master,” he forced around a thick and clumsy tongue. “But did we not break our cover after the slaves were recovered from Ambuscade?”
Master Windu steepled his fingers and the hodgepodge collection of masters on planet or available through holo all looked equally squeamish.
“The escape of the pleasure slaves from Ambuscade’s trading ring was never tied to your and Obi-Wan’s presence on the ship. Knight Vos worked quite the undercover mission to maintain your identities and pull further intel on future trades. He is quite adamant that with the infiltration of this slave auction, not only thousands of slaves will be saved, but we can also pull down most of the Outer Rim’s slaver rings.”
“Anything,” he answered firmly, quelling the turbulent nausea in his stomach. “Whatever the Council needs from me.”
Obi-Wan leaned forward with a fierce frown. “Padawan—the price we paid at the beginning of this mission should at least give you pause. I want you to think about our undercover roles—what is required of us—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said fiercely. “If we can finally put an end to the slaver rings, I will sacrifice whatever I must.”
Obi-Wan’s frown deepened to an uncharacteristic scowl. “The Council will find I am less cavalier with Anakin’s wellbeing. I will do what I can to see this mission through, but I will not enact torture again.”
Torture?
Anakin blinked, completely wrong footed. Was that how Obi-Wan viewed that night on the Ambuscade ship? It had bothered him, clearly, Anakin had felt his roiling guilt and horror for months through the worn threads of their training bond. But in some horribly embarrassed way, he guessed a portion of that horror and revulsion was towards Anakin, towards his pleasure from the beating. It wasn’t every day you publicly spanked your Padawan, and they ejaculated over your leg from it.
But torture? He mulled the word over in his mind like a worm smooth pebble. He knew it for what it really was, remembered actual cruelty from a slave master, knew true beatings and whippings from enemies who wanted to flay the skin from his bones. He couldn’t imagine any angle he looked at what happened between him and his master as torture. How could Obi-Wan say that when Anakin had sobbed from pleasure, had leaked molten want into the force, gods be damned when Anakin had gasped sticky release down his leg?
“It’s good the council isn’t asking you what I am willing to do then, master,” he snapped, flushed hot with prickly embarrassment. “Surely as a Jedi Master you are aware of what must be sacrificed for the greater good, and playing a slave hardly counts as torture.”
No one in the room looked like they believed him, and he gritted his teeth against the frustration crawling up his throat.
Anakin read the mission report in the cockpit with his boots propped on the steering yoke as the stars bled past at lightspeed. He scrolled idly through the datapad and fought that same feeling from the council room, an unreal ringing in his ears as if he were hit with a stunner from behind.
The Outer Rim slave auction on Cantonica was the largest of its kind, even beyond the laws and reach of the Republic. While the auction arena in Canto Noi earned less renown than the gambling city of Canto Bight, the whole planet saw the same sorts of clientele. Cantonica had been a thorn in the Republic’s side for over a century. The entire system of the Corporate Sector was the scummiest of the lowest low lifes, where no governments dictated planetary law.
Cantonica was beyond the law of the Republic, and far beyond the morals of even the Separatists and most Outer Rim systems. Hundreds, if not thousands of Outer Rim planets still saw the legality of slavery, but only Cantonica flaunted slave markets larger than Mid Rim cities. Canto Noi hosted the arena, large enough to hold half a million in the slaver markets by day, and the gladiatorial fights by night.
Ambuscade had been nothing in the grand scheme of slavers lurking beyond the reaches of the Republic, and the Hutts hardly constituted much more. This was where the galaxy’s wealthiest patrons bought and sold their prized pets, where pleasure slaves went for millions of credits if the wealthy wanted them enough. Hopefully with Quin’s work in the cartels and slavers’ rings the past year, Anakin’s reputation was enough to buy them into the higher priced bidding auctions.
He scanned through the report with a growing twist of hatred in his chest. The cavalier flippancy and exorbitant wealth, the complete disregard for the same laws that held the rest of the galaxy accountable, it all turned his stomach with revulsion. That the Jedi could do so little in the face of slavery only made it worse.
The arena was divided into five brackets masters bought and sold slaves within, depending on the grading of the slave. Bracket one consisted of manual labor workers, usually stolen, and shipped off world from their home planets, just as his own mother was. Bracket two required fluency in basic and some education or technical skill, they looked to be a cheap source of estate workers for private houses. The third bracket, he read with a blank sense of recognition, he would have been. Mid-grade slaves with fluency in multiple languages and technical skills, most often bought for use in business sectors.
The fourth bracket began the market for pleasure slaves though the report listed a table of far more detailed grading systems for the pleasure sector. It looked to be the most popular bracket with a wider offering and more affordability for those with credits to reach Cantonica and buy a pleasure slave but not with millions of credits at their disposal. Quinlan had bought them easy enough entry to the fourth bracket by reputation and falsified papers alone, but they somehow needed to gain selling rights to the fifth bracket. The fifth bracket looked exclusively open to the planet’s VIPs and invited guests with gold cards. Individual pleasure slaves of that ranking sold for a minimum of five million credits, the highest sought of them all brokered well over twenty million. To get Obi-Wan close to any of the leaders of the Nal Raka Empire and the Exchange they needed to—somehow find access to that fifth bracket.
He startled at the sound of Obi-Wan’s knuckles rapping against the durasteel frame of the cockpit before he sat in the copilot’s seat with a drawn expression. “And how are you finding the mission report?”
He grunted and scrolled deeper through the paragraphs of requirements for the auctioning rooms and ‘product quality demonstrations.’ “I think Quinlan deserves a drink for even getting us a bronze card for entry. I don’t want to know what he had to do for it.”
Obi-Wan crossed his arms against his chest and fixed that piercing look of his on him, with narrowed eyebrows and some ill feeling in the force. “I do not think you are prepared to walk into this, Anakin.”
“On the contrary,” he flung back, “I think it’s you who is squeamish over this, master.”
Obi-Wan’s frown deepened, and he stroked his beard in thought before he answered cautiously. “We never—really spoke of what happened last time.”
All at once the color drained from his face and Anakin swallowed around the sudden lump of dirt wedged in the back of his throat. “I’m—prepared this time,” he rasped. “We won’t be caught unawares of what we have to do.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, always in that equally worried and disapproving tone. “We must discuss this—discuss what we will do if we find ourselves in that—predicament again.”
“I imagine you’ll bend me over your knee and beat me again,” he said jokingly, though Obi-Wan did not look to enjoy his attempt at levity.
Obi-Wan said quietly, “we need to discuss how you will react if I do.”
Anakin swallowed down bile and flushed hot and blotchy. The cockpit suddenly felt stifling and tight and the looming memories of that night, of his squirming and panting and the pain—the pleasure, they breathed down his neck, warm and damp.
“Probably,” he forced past clenched teeth, “in a productive way to getting us in the fifth bracket.”
“And you are…agreeing to that?” Obi-Wan asked, still with that piercing look of his fixed-on Anakin.
Stars, maybe the cockpit transparisteel would crack at any moment and suck him into the blackness of space and put him out of his misery.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, master,” he finally floundered, heat flushing his neck and ears a florid red. “I’m sorry—” for liking it, for wanting it, for wanting you? Maybe it should be a more specific apology, sorry for coming down your pantleg, sorry for curling his fingers inside himself for the past year and sobbing in his bunk from the memories of it?
“I don’t want you to say anything,” Obi-Wan snapped, “I want you to be honest with me. I cannot bear the strain of what transpired last time, Anakin. You must tell me if it is too much—if we cross a line past what you are willing to bear.”
“That won’t happen,” he said, voice thin and faint as he refused to meet those blue eyes.
“Nevertheless, I think we should keep ourselves open in the force, unlike—I made a mistake last time, closing myself off to you.”
Anakin closed his eyes and swallowed down more sour bile, feeling hot and queasy with dread at the prospect of his master feeling his inevitable pleasure. “Of course, master.”
The docking yards around the arena were some of the largest Anakin ever saw, even on Coruscant. The security clearances were perhaps even more impressive to gain access to the monstrosity of the towering arena itself. But the bronze card given to Obi-Wan by Quinlan’s masterful work proved its worth and they moved through dozens of checkpoints far easier than either of them anticipated.
Obi-Wan wore spacer clothes and fit seamlessly with the crowd, dark and expensive in some of Coruscant’s chicest current fashion. The undercover team had really outdone themselves with the high waisted black trousers and knee-high dark, polished boots. His coal jacket, broad shouldered and with more pockets and zippers than he could ever need, made him look alluringly dangerous and just what they needed to meld seamlessly with the other sellers in the fourth bracket.
Anakin felt—not naked, but exposed, vulnerable. The nakedness might come later, he thought wryly. The temple’s wardrobe team had outfitted him with something truly scandalous to blend in with the other high ranking pleasure slaves. Under his loose linen tunic and pants, gold and obsidian pressed against his hipbones and cupped his cock uncomfortably tight. He wasn’t an oblivious shaak, as much as Obi-Wan made him out to be when drinking with dignitaries and diplomats. He knew the allure of lingerie, knew the specialty of strappy underclothes made specifically for men, thongs and stockings and garters fitted to curve against a cock and narrow hips.
Black fabric cut against his skin, three straps against his hips and a thin strip between his ass cheeks that served little purpose but to make him walk stiff and uncomfortable. Sheer, gold gauze panels, one in the front and back, hung from the waistband of the underwear and were tucked down his right pant leg at the moment.
He brushed shoulders with other slaves filtering through the arena gates, big enough to land ships through. The lower bracket slaves wore rough spun fabrics and manacles around their ankles and wrists, chained one to another. But the pleasure slaves were easiest to spot of them all, too well trained to be restrained, they walked behind their masters unchained and with their heads held high. Many walked openly in scraps of lace and shimmersilk less covering this own ensemble and wore diamond dust on their cheeks and precious stones around their necks.
Obi-Wan had staunchly told him to forgo makeup, digging his heels in oddly as if the thought offended him. At the time he shrugged, indifferent, and if Obi-Wan thought it best, well he knew better about allure anyway. Now he felt discomforted with his clean face, different than other pleasure slaves around him. He wondered if his master might have made a mistake, wanting him to look more himself when they needed exoticness and—seduction to somehow gain them entry to the fifth bracket. Stars only knew how he was going to impress anyone enough to let that happen.
Inside the massive complex they wormed their way through the crowds that swelled with enough feelings of fear and sickened hopelessness it made him feel pale. Obi-Wan pushed him through with a hand on his shoulder, more for the benefit of watchful eyes, but it grounded him against the tempest of a hundred thousand slaves’ wretched misery all the same.
A security officer scanned their card at the turbo lifts and eyed Anakin. “Quality evaluations for 4s start on level fifty,” he told Obi-Wan.
“And what of bracket five?”
He snorted at them both and ushered them through the turbolift doors. “A little above your pay grade, keep it moving.”
He kept his eyes down in the turbolift, pushed close to the transparisteel panes from the other occupants, masters with stern faces and half naked pleasure slaves who felt of nauseous apprehension in the force.
Obi-Wan checked them into the holo register with the scan of their bronze card.
“You will proceed to quality check, please,” an xr droid droned.
The quality check was an entire docking bay full of lasered off walkways and partitioned check stations. Security officers blocked every avenue, dressed in black and teal visored helmets and armed with blasters. More than the thong under his pants, walking around without his saber left him feeling far more naked and vulnerable than any strappy underwear in the Galaxy could.
Obi-Wan led him through the first health checks with a hand against his low back, until a brusk medic directed him to lose the linen over clothes. He took a long, even breath through his nose and dropped the tunic and pants. Obi-Wan glanced away from him with a firm resoluteness sharp in his eyes. Anakin wanted to snarl at him, look at me.
His master bloomed embarrassment and fretfulness into the force with a keen, visceral quality to the emotions that surprised Anakin. He was so accustomed to Obi-Wan keeping himself closed off in the bond, his emotions ever controlled and barricaded from him. But true to his word, Obi-Wan was keeping himself open to Anakin, his half of the bond more exposed than it ever had been.
In comparison Anakin kept himself tightly shuttered and controlled. He knew, with a sinking dread in his gut, that Obi-Wan would understand his want by the end of this. But his master didn’t need to know the tingling, awful excitement that had niggled at the base of his skull since he read over the mission report. It was a sense of deep dread mostly, that he sensed the confrontation, sensed Obi-Wan seeing the way he wanted, longed—fucking ached to be put over his master’s knee and beat again. But a part of himself, the part that had come in his bunk a multitude of times in the last year on his fingers, feverish and nearly gagging for it, for thoughts of taking his master’s punishment and then his cock, that part of himself jittered antsy and welcoming for the scenario he never thought he would get to experience again.
Obi-Wan could never know he wanted this. He could never know it wasn’t only nervousness and apprehension twisting round and round in his gut, that there was something like anticipation thrumming in his veins and bubbling tremulous and giddy on his breath.
But Obi-Wan wouldn’t even look at him like this as he stood with his arms outstretched for the medic to poke at his sides and scan his vitals. He waited patient and still as they hummed and scribbled notes on their datapad.
“His muscle composition is phenomenal,” they told Obi-Wan, who still kept his eyes away from the straps of his costume, from the sway of sheer gold and the display of all his naked skin. They knew one another’s bodies intimately well, through years of cohabitation and training and battles. But glimpses of skin during missions and sonics was light years different than him put on display like this, meant to be looked at for the pleasure of it.
“He is very healthy,” Obi-Wan provided, stroking his beard in deep thought. “And is a proficient athlete. Can you tell me the requirements for access to bracket five?”
The medic pulled his mouth open, and Anakin stuck his tongue out and endured the humiliation of having his lips yanked up and his gums examined.
“Bracket five security clearance requires him to pass the exotic export examination. Once you clear medical and quality assessment proceed to level 80. I would normally try and dissuade you, clearance is rarely given day of, but he looks unusually high quality, you feed him well.”
Obi-Wan outright bared his teeth in a grimace. “Thank you.”
“Would you relax?” He muttered in the quality assessment quo, his skin pricking more from Obi-Wan’s wriggling turmoil than the frigid air against his naked flank.
“I am afraid of what the examination will entail,” Obi-Wan gritted from the corner of his mouth, eyes flinty and narrowed as he pushed Anakin forward by his shoulder.
“Can’t be worse than last time,” he mumbled, blushy and warm just from the thought of it. Obi-Wan made a pained face but said nothing else until an examiner in plastic gloves cupped Anakin’s cock through his thong.
“Is that necessary?” Obi-Wan snapped at her.
Anakin shot him a perturbed look and brushed his own, clumsy attempt at calm against his master’s mind. He so rarely required comforting or reassurance, but it seemed it was Obi-Wan who found their mission to be the most distressing. But then, he didn’t get hard from being bent over his master’s lap and spanked. Torture, he called it.
The examiner squeezed him through the parody of underwear and sheer drape of gold shimmersilk. His breath stilted a little when she rolled his balls between her fingers and he chewed down a sheepish noise when he thickened a little in her palm, less from touch and more from the licking flames of his own anticipation. He blushed furiously when she made an approving noise and checked something on her pad.
“Graded A in health and aesthetics, sir,” she told Obi-Wan. “He is very reactive which I have noted on his profile. I see we have you marked for an application for bracket five which I have forwarded for approval if he passes examination. Please proceed to level 80.”
He refused to meet Obi-Wan’s searching expression and kept his eyes trained on his feet in the turbo lift. Something crackled in his stomach, sick, fluttery nerves that sent his pulse skittering like a prey animal in his neck. He felt hyper aware of the rapid rise and fall of his own naked chest and the red, wavering heat he radiated in the force despite his shields.
The eightieth level, though just as large as the others, was like stepping into an austere museum compared to the pandemonium of the previous levels and examinations. The crowd had thinned to less than a tenth of the thousands of the fourth bracket security clearances.
An examiner in white robes smiled at Obi-Wan and scanned their bronze card. “Your request is pending, sir. Exotic export examinations are held solo before the review board, please wait to be contacted through the com you have provided in your application. While you wait, we welcome you to relax in our lounges with your attendant. In the likelihood of your examination failure, please return to bracket four for this afternoon’s auctions.”
In the likelihood of your examination failure. Anakin pondered that, even after they found the lounges, low lit and filled with settees and cushions. Masters splayed, well dressed, and talking into their coms or pads, drinks in hand while their pleasure slaves sat at their feet with their eyes on their clasped hands. Anakin followed suite and curled on his knees at Obi-Wan’s boots.
He watched the slaves from under lowered lashes and sought their emotions in the force. Most of them felt nervous, most likely at the prospect of failure and imminent punishment. Some felt truly calm, though they were all marvelous actors, without the force they all appeared tranquil and placid at their masters’ feet.
They all wore straps and coy slashes of cloth like his own, flashes of shimmersilk and nothing much else. He peered at each of their faces, uncomfortably aware that they all wore kohl and shimmer and blush and most wore jewels or collars of precious metals.
Minutes trickled by and he and Obi-Wan both watched multiple masters and their slaves exit the examination room, all furious with dark faces and thunderous anger hanging over them. More time passed and Anakin grew increasingly anxious, not a single master looked pleased. How many had left in clear failure, ten, fifteen?
He startled at the feel of fingers carding through his curls. “Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmured and tilted his head back with the gentle brush of fingers against his jaw. He swallowed, nearly breathless and blinked up at his master. “Here,” Obi-Wan said, and pressed a cup of water to his lips. Oh—he realized he was thirsty, his throat tight and dry from the heated flush of his own body. Obi-Wan had felt his discomfort, even when he remained distracted enough to not realize it himself.
Minutes trickled by and they watched masters and slaves come and go, nearly all scowling and unhappy. An hour wormed its way to two and Anakin shifted on his knees, stiff and sore from the position but with little choice but to bear it. Obi-Wan’s com finally chirped, and he nudged Anakin to his feet.
“It’s time.”
Sweat pricked at the back of his neck and knees when they entered the examination room. He blinked at the half circle of seated officials, all with datapads in their laps and the distinct feeling of uninterested and unimpressed boredom curling from them in the force.
“Ben Starchaser,” a humanoid woman with red eyes at the center of the circle said clearly. “You have submitted your pleasure slave, Anakin, for approval of bracket five. Please present him to the board, and quickly if you please.”
Obi-Wan led him forward and he felt more sweat gather at his hairline. At once he realized they both reeked of apprehension in the bond, mutually sick with nerves.
“Hmm,” she said, looking Anakin over with a clinical eye. “He is fair even unadorned, but every slave here is beautiful.” Her gaze sharpened on him, and he flushed under the scrutiny. “Anakin,” she addressed, with the oddest note of kindness to her tone. “Suck your master’s cock for me.”
Force—
He wanted to whine, wanted to sob from the jolt of fucking please that struck down his spine, electric and violent. He felt like a live wire as he folded to his knees and blinked up at Obi-Wan. His master felt of nothing but pure, naked horror though, strong enough that he hesitated despite their audience, and pushed worry, and okay? through the bond he had kept mostly closed until this moment.
Obi-Wan took a shuddering, visible inhale and pushed apprehension and I’m so so sorry back at him. “You heard her, Anakin,” he said aloud.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—
His hands shook with a fine tremor as he lifted them to Obi-Wan’s high waistband. He ignored the sounds of several board members whispering and slipped open the top button of his master’s pants.
“Wait,” the woman interrupted, and he froze, glancing to her where she propped her chin against her open palm. “They tell me you are the prized slave of the Hutts we have heard so much about. You’re the one every slaver in the Outer Rim won’t stop talking about.”
He kept still with his heart in his mouth and nudged Obi-Wan in the bond, a silent question of what he was supposed to do.
Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “I was not aware of his renown. My venerated lord will be pleased to know his prized possession will fetch such a large price.”
“And why are the Hutts willing to part with a slave as praised as he?” She asked archly, glancing to Anakin with a narrowed look of pure cynicism.
Obi-Wan grinned at that, toothy and wolfish. “To fetch a high price, ma’am. War is such expensive business.”
She scoffed and clicked off her pad, looking far more interested now. “Show me then, what you showed those imbeciles with Ambuscade that impressed them so deeply.”
Before he straightened from his knees to his feet, Obi-Wan had retrieved an empty chair and drug it before the board members. He sat, wide legged and charmingly roguish in his role as arrogant slaver. Anakin breathed through his teeth, just a hiss of air, raised to a crouch and laid himself across his master’s lap.
It was different this time, of course. He wasn’t nearly in tears from embarrassment, though heat did crawl up his neck and light his ears on fire. And Obi-Wan needn’t pull his pants down to expose him. He felt the slithery fabric of the gold shimmersilk slip to drape over his hip, leaving him perfectly exposed with only a strap between his cheeks and a delicate stretch of fabric keeping his cock tight between his legs.
Sweat still caught in the creases of his elbows and knees and dampened curls against his neck and his breath still came light and panting. But it wasn’t fear that rang with alarm in his mind, wasn’t mortification that brought tears to his eyes. Anticipation and nervous, jittery embarrassment brought adrenaline close to his skin and he practically quivered in Obi-Wan’s lap.
But he forced himself to relax, unlocked each tight limb to drape himself as artfully as he could manage, spread his knees to bear his weight properly, let his fingers rest against the floor.
Obi-Wan petted his flank for a moment and pushed worry—fear—anxiety—to him in the force. Anakin sensed the deepest emotion underlying them, his attention caught on Anakin’s wellbeing, his mental strength and safety that he thought bore such damage from this. Aching tenderness furled open in his chest and this time, instead of a sob, he bit a smile to the inside of his bicep. He brushed his own resoluteness, his odd calm and quiet to his master. Usually, he only felt this way in the middle of battle, deflecting blaster fire and ion cannons with his lightsaber and the force screaming in his ears louder than a star destroyer crashing. But as much as his body thrummed like a laser’s edge, his mind felt smooth as glass.
Then Obi-Wan brought his hand against him and all at once that calm shattered—splintered into a thousand glittering pieces, all sharp-edged and beautiful. He gasped, open mouthed and kept himself still.
He had grown too used to rutting into the sting against his backside when he did this to himself. Obi-Wan brought his hand against his ass cheek against with the deafening crack of skin against skin and he locked his hips tight to keep himself from arching into it.
Force—fuck—fuck—
He gritted his teeth against some animal, desperate noise working its way up his throat, and he curled his fingers into fists against the floor. Obi-Wan brought his hand against him again—again and harder, the crack of his open palm snapping in his own ears. Heat bloomed open in his gut and furled its syrupy, feverish tendrils through him. He felt molten with it, not just the skin under his master’s hand, but the flush of his chest and throat, his cheeks, he burned with it.
He locked all of himself controlled and still, taking the rhythmic impacts of Obi-Wan’s hand smacking against his skin. His skin bloomed flaming heat that stung, so bright and brilliant all he could manage was to hang his head between his shoulders and stay quiet.
“Are we to be impressed by your slave taking a punishment well?” Came the woman’s sharp voice.
Obi-Wan brought his hand against him—crack—and then stilled with his fingers curled around the flaming heat of his reddened cheek.
“I think you misunderstand, madam.”
Anakin kept perfectly still and evened his breaths, forced air past his lips in steady inhales rather than the ragged gasps he wanted to take. He was already so hard in his kriffing thong, aching with a painful bight from how tightly the fabric kept him constricted. With his hips draped between Obi-Wan’s legs the board couldn’t see that, but more importantly Obi-Wan wouldn’t feel the hard line of his cock jammed against his thigh like last time.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmured to him, voice pitched to carry to their audience, “you have done so well taking your punishment as a slave should. But I give you permission to show them how you like it, darling.”
Oh
His cheeks scorched with heat, and he hid his face against his arm, eyes screwed tight and embarrassment slithering up his throat that he swallowed around, aching, and tight, just as before. Obi-Wan knew. Had he known the whole time, or only just realized it from the way he roiled naked want into the force despite his shields?
And darling—darling—that word in Obi-Wan’s voice, directed at him, jolted lightening lit want through him.
His master brought his hand against his backside again, the hardest hit so far, and force did it hurt, did it ache and burn, and gods be damned his cock throbbed with the sharp jolt of pain.
Obi-Wan’ voice lilted with a tone of gentle chastisement. “You must forgive him, his master is not fond of punishment being enjoyed, he is used to controlling his reactions when my great and venerated lord Hutt does not like his slaves knowing pleasure.” He squeezed Anakin’s flank and brushed the ghost of a warning through their bond. “Do as I say, pet, show them how well you take it, darling.”
He whimpered against his arm and kept his eyes closed, too flushed, and horrified with himself to do anything but take the beating from Obi-Wan’s hand.
CRACK
He jolted from the ache of his master’s hand and recognized Obi-Wan was hitting harder, just like last time, bringing his hand against him with far more force, probably for the show of it, but that mattered little to him at the moment. Anakin felt his master’s core tighten and he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth in the split second before pain flared electric white in his skin and—
“Ahh!” He gasped and oh—he rolled his hips, squirmed in his master’s lap to try and get friction against his throbbing cock.
“There we are,” Obi-Wan murmured, and hit him again.
Urgent, pulsing arousal built in his gut, and it burned, the pain—the pleasure—every inch of him throbbed like a coal ready to collapse to hollow ash. Obi-Wan brought his hand against the underside of his cheeks, to the fattier curve of his flank and he couldn’t help it, couldn’t hold himself back any longer when for a year his mind came to associate that aching hurt with the roll of his hips and the euphoria of his own fingers twisting inside himself.
His master hit him, and he thrust into it with a shaky, high-pitched moan.
“Can he come from this?”
“Can you, Anakin?” Obi-Wan directed at him with a fierce smack of his hand against him.
He gasped and wriggled his hips, precome staining through his underwear and leaking down the underside of his cock. “Yes, master.”
CRACK
“Yes what, darling?”
He pushed his elbows into the floor and rocked his hips into his master’s hand. It hurt, it hurt so fiercely, so much more than when he did this to himself. Sweat ran into his eyes from his curls and soaked his back, ran down his legs, and slithered between his thighs where shimmershilk fabric bunched underneath him. He felt like he might burn alive in his master’s lap like this, if the weeping ache between his legs didn’t kill him first.
“Yes, yes I can come just from this, master,” he whined.
Obi-Wan shifted his legs and all at once his master’s thigh pressed against his cock and he gasped, a breathy little ah—ah—ah! as he fucked himself against his master’s lap with every searing jolt of a hand hitting his ass. He smeared sticky lines of precome against his thigh, felt the soaked fabric of his thong catch against his skin and cloth, sticky and tacky with his own pre-release, his own lack of control.
From far away golden tenderness scuffed against the back of his feverish mind and he snapped back to awareness all at once, conscious that he had left himself gapingly open in the bond, so used to Obi-Wan keeping himself locked behind an impenetrable fortress. It had never mattered—no matter how hard he tried it certainly hadn’t mattered the first time this happened.
And stars, Obi-Wan brushed tentative worry through their tether in the force, a silent question soaked in guilt and something molten as melted gold. Are you alright? Do I keep going?
Did he beg? Apologize? Weep?
He sobbed against his own shoulder and tears gathered hot behind his lids and spilled down his cheeks. Alarm spiked jagged and lancing between them, a silent exclamation of terror from Obi-Wan, and his hand stilled against Anakin’s backside, fingers pressed to bruised, reddened skin.
Tell me. Came the silent plea between them. He realized at once that if he did not, Obi-Wan would stop and ruin their entire mission, all because he could not control his want, his mortification at his master realizing the depths to which he ached. He had to answer, he knew.
He did not know the words how, and instead shoved the mangled tangle of his messy, horrible emotions through their bond. He opened himself to Obi-Wan, laid himself bare more than laying across his lap, naked and hard and begging. It was all a knotted-up jumble of hurts and wants and mortification. A thread of his longing led to memories of squirming on his fingers, that thread led to fear, fear of Obi-Wan’s disgust, his disappointment, his rejection.
You want me to want you, Obi-Wan wondered in his mind.
Yes, master.
You want this.
Yes, master.
Obi-Wan raised his hand and brought it down against the curve of Anakin’s ass with such force his teeth clattered. “Ahh!” He moaned, girlish and horribly embarrassing as he fucked his cock against his master’s pantleg and thought hazily of how much worse the come stain was going to show up on black this time.
“Beg,” Obi-Wan said aloud.
And then Anakin felt it, open and bubbling in the force. Obi-Wan held it between them in his mind’s eye, that melted, molten gold from before. Obi-Wan shifted him again and all at once he realized he felt the line of his master’s hard cock against his hipbone. His master’s want seared as bright as a lightsaber blade, just as hot and crackling as his own.
He gasped and scrambled his fingers against the floor with the lancing shock of arousal swooping through his gut. “Please, master,” he begged, lips parted around wet, ragged gasps. “Stars—please—please!”
“Not yet, darling,” Obi-Wan answered and he choked a broken sob against his arm and stilled his hips, though he trembled from the effort of it.
“And what would you have me do?” His master asked, no longer speaking to him.
“You would leave him like this?” The woman said, clearly amused.
“He will do as he’s told, whatever you like madam.”
Anakin shook and burned hotter than a sun, blazing hurt and pleasure in a whirling turn of stars, but he did as his master said and kept still and quiet, waiting for the board’s command.
“Let the poor thing find his pleasure then,” she laughed, “I think he’s earned it.”
Obi-Wan cupped his flank and then brought his hand against the inflamed, sensitive skin. “You heard her, come when you like, pet.”
He felt just on the brink, standing on a cliff’s edge with a tremble. But then his master brushed his hand against the underside of his ass and spread him apart all at once to tug back the strap of his underwear and press the pad of his thumb against his hole.
He came without even a gasp of warning, simply pulsed onto his master’s thigh as if it were ripped from him unwilling. He shook with it, the spilling pleasure of his release in four heavy spurts that left him shakier than a newborn.
“I see why the entire Outer Rim was so taken with him,” that woman said. “He is quite remarkable.”
“Then you see what my venerated lord does, he will be very pleased.”
Anakin braced his trembling hands against the floor with the intent to raise himself, though Obi-Wan stopped him with a firm hand to the low of his back. He stilled, unsure what his master wanted from him when they had clearly passed the examination, and then realized. Obi-Wan still ached, entirely hard against him.
He swallowed and sunbursts of breathy—swimming want bloomed behind his eyes, kaleidoscopic and so potent it hurt worse than his bruised skin. Obi-Wan wanted him, was hard for him, hard from him laid across his lap and begging to be beaten. Force, how were they going to get through this without him publicly begging to be fucked?