Author's foreword

Not long ago, in a galaxy not so far away, a woman we will call L. asked her writing-friend to write an Obi/Ani slash story for her. The writing-friend refused, claiming she was a het/gen writer, not a slasher.

But L. did not take no as an answer: she challenged, harassed, and accused ("You have no balls to try something new!") the writing-friend, until said writing-friend capitulated and wrote the story—"MY MASTER" (check my profile; you will find a link to my Live Journal and this story, which is too explicit for Ffnet). However the writing-friend decided to take her sweet revenge for everything she had to bear…if she was without balls then L.'s beloved, Anakin, would be too!

L. read the story and was not impressed by the writing-friend's work. In fact, she was so pissed off with what the writing-friend had done to Anakin she threatened to never speak again to said writing-friend.

Her reaction shocked the writing-friend so much she did not dare to post "MY MASTER" for several months, afraid to be torn into pieces by other Anakin fans. But when she finally mustered enough courage to do it, she was pleasantly surprised by the result. Not only was she not torn into pieces, but the story received a lot of positive feedback.

Time passed. The writing-friend discovered she was good at writing slash and produced another story, while L. meditated and mulled over "MY MASTER". Then, one day, L. contacted the writing-friend again and admitted that, well, she had always liked "MY MASTER", ball-less Anakin included!

The writing-friend's first reaction was to strangle her, before she was rendered speechless by L.'s next line: "You know, since my birthday is approaching, could you please write another story with the same premise? Maybe an AU where Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon never found Anakin as a boy? All of this, of course, from Anakin's POV." Of course! Anything else, madam? Do you also want Yoda dancing the Can-Can and Mace Windu dressed in drag?

The writing-friend wisely refrained from saying the highly censorable words running in her mind, also because, even if she would not admit it that soon, she was already writing a story that, with the due changes, could be the perfect birthday present for L.…and thus "THE STRANGER" was written.

All of this to explain that the writing-friend (me) is not a pervert that enjoys chopping off Anakin's balls. This time she was only following the rules given her by L. because, after all, this is L.'s birthday present.

Buon compleanno, L.! I hope you will enjoy your present!

As for my usual readers, try not to be too shocked! I have my hand with most of the genres related to Obi-Wan: gen, het, Obidala, Siriwan, Obi/Ani, Obi-Wan/OFC etc. The only one that simply refuses to work is the Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan slash, because I see them too much as a father/son team.


The first time Anakin Skywalker saw the stranger it was at Mos Espa main market.

The young man was walking among the stands, buying food and looking for something nice to bring his mother, when suddenly the hair on his nape stood up, and he had the distinct sensation someone was staring at him.

Truth be told, it was not an unusual occurrence for Anakin. He was used to be stared at. His past as a pod-racer, and his current profession practically guaranteed curious or leering eyes would follow him wherever he went.

However, he somehow sensed this gaze was different from all the others, thus he turned around and scanned the crowd until his eyes fell on the stranger.

The first thing Anakin thought when he saw the man was, "What he is doing here?"

His short, neatly-combed ginger hair, his well-trimmed beard, his simple, clean clothes, and the elegance of the way he moved made him stand out from the crowd gathered in the market. There was something distinguished, dignified even, in the way he folded his arms over his chest and held himself. It was completely out of place in the wretched hive of scum and villainy that was Mos Espa.

Anakin was too far away to see the stranger's eye colour or read the expression of his face, but of something he was sure: there was no morbid curiosity nor lust on his features.

The young man took a step toward the stranger's position, but his path was blocked by a bantha pulling a wagon full of groceries and, by the time Anakin circled it, the other man had disappeared.

In the following days, Anakin could swear he felt the strangers' eyes on him more than once, but every time he turned around, there was no one in sight. However, those looks never bothered him, for something inside Anakin told him they meant no danger.

So the evening he arrived to Toradiur's place to work and found the stranger sitting at the counter with a drink, Anakin could not help but feel surprised and even disappointed.

What was a man like him doing in a brothel?

The same thing all of them do, a nasty little voice said inside Anakin, and yet, despite the evidence in front of his eyes, he could not bring himself to believe it.

The stranger was different—he did not belong there. He was sure of it.

And yet there he was, staring at Anakin with clear eyes and an unreadable face.

Anakin tilted his head, acknowledging his presence, then turned his concentration on doing his job. He smoothed his black, gold trimmed silk shirt and tight pants with his hands, brushed back his golden mane and crossed the hall, swinging his hips in a way that was masculine and enchanting.

He started moving between the crowded tables, talking and flirting with the men sitting there, coaxing them to order more drinks and enticing them to follow him to the room upstairs.

Anakin was good at his job. He had been doing it for four years and knew all the tricks. He was the best—but being the best also meant not everyone was able to afford the fee Toradiur had set for him.

Tonight looked like it was going to be an unproductive time, and Anakin would have to return home empty handed. If it was not for the fact he needed the money to pay for the ship Watto had reserved for him, Anakin would have welcomed a night of rest.

He was tired of this life, of those nameless faces and meaningless fucks. He wanted to go away from Tatooine; he wanted a different job; he wanted to see the galaxy, to live in a place without sand. He wanted… what? A lover?

He mentally kicked himself. As a whore Anakin could not allow himself to even think about love. Love was for the poets or those with enough money in their pockets they had not to worry about paying the rent or making sure their paralyzed mother got the appropriate medical care she needed. Love was for… a hand on his shoulder interrupted his thinking.

"Krixster!" Anakin exclaimed, turning to face one of the girls that worked in the place. "You scared me!"

"I know. You practically jumped. Where were you Anakin?" Krixster questioned with a smile.

"Uh…very far from here. Do you need something?"

"Toradiur has told me to alert you that you have a costumer waiting for you upstairs."

"I see." Anakin could not decide if the news made him happy or not. He caressed the girl's cheek as he thanked her, then crossed the large tavern, avoiding the hands that tried to grope and pinch him.

As he was passing by a table crowded with a group of burly men, a drunken voice said aloud, "So you have a client, Skywalker? Ready to have a fat cock stuffed up your ass?"

Anakin gritted his teeth, but refused to acknowledge the man who had spoken. He did not have to turn his head to know it was Darnell, a thug that worked in the nearby mines. He had been lusting after Anakin since he had started working at Toradiur's place, but since he could not afford to pay for him, the miner had settled for harassing and taunting him every time he could.

The young man walked toward the door that opened to the stairway, throwing a brief glance toward the counter, somehow relieved the stranger was no longer sitting there and that he had not heard Darnell's spiteful comment.

Anakin covered the steps two by two, decided to get done with the business as soon as possible. However, when he reached the floor, the stench of semen, sweat and urine assailed his nose, making his stomach churn, and he slowed down as he fought against the desire to retch.

There had been a time, not too long ago, when he would have not noticed the smell or how dirty the corridor was, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore it with each passing night.

Anakin stopped in front of a closed door, took a deep breath and then pushed the button to make it open. He froze.

The stranger.

The stranger was inside the small room, in front of him.

He was sitting on an old armchair by the bed, the feeble light of the bedside lamp making the red of his hair and beard shine like copper.

The disappointment Anakin had experienced when he had first seen the man downstairs at the counter returned tenfold.

When he had seen that unknown man at the market, he had thought that, with his natural elegance and distinguished appearance, he emblazoned what good and pure and uncorrupted there was in the Galaxy. Instead…instead he was there, in that bleak brothel room, waiting to fuck him, like all those other nameless men.

This really should teach me not to judge people just by their appearance, Anakin mused sadly. He took a deep breath and stepped further inside the room, thus allowing the door to slide closed behind his back.

He bowed his head, forced a seductive smile on his lips and murmured throatily, "What can I do for you, big boy?"

"Could you please sit on the bed, young one?"

Several thoughts crossed Anakin's mind. First of all, he analyzed the stranger's voice. It was low, cultured, with clipped consonants that evidenced a superior education and a long permanence in the Core worlds. Then there was the way the man had spoken to him, politely, with respect, and with no hint of irony in the last two words.

Finally, Anakin wondered about the meaning behind the man's request. Why did the stranger want him to sit on the bed? Did he want Anakin to fellate him as he stood up? Or had not this man realized what Anakin really was, and thus wanted to suck him or sit over the young whore?

Anakin was aware that it had been common for those like him to emphasize their condition by using make up and dressing like women. In fact, he had been taught to behave like that when he had received his first training as a child, just after the operation. However, when many years later, Anakin had chosen to become a whore on his own will, he had also decided he would not submit to those rules. His clothes had always been masculine and he never used make up, not even to cover the scar near his right eye, a memento from his last pod-race.

He might not be whole, thanks to Gardulla the Hutt's surgery, but he was still a man and he refused to behave like a woman. In the end, what had been at first seen as a fault, had become one of things that had made him so popular among his clients. However, it could also cause problems with the newcomers, the ones wanting to be fucked.

So Anakin stood there, unsure about what to do, as the stranger fixed him with his blue-grey-green eyes, a serene look on his face.

"Is there some problem?" He finally asked. "I would like to talk with you, and I thought you would be more comfortable sitting than standing."

Anakin forced his mouth to stay closed. The stranger wanted to talk with him? About what?

He started to object, when the man spoke again. "Listen, I don't wish to make you uneasy. Just sit on the bed and relax. We don't need to talk if you don't want."

Somehow feeling he was back in his familiar territory, Anakin moved to the bed and sat down on the edge, very close to the stranger.

The man smiled at him, a gentle smile that made the fine lines near his eyes become more evident, then closed his eyelids.

Anakin's eyes widened in surprise. What was that blasted man doing? Was he going to sleep?

"Relax," the stranger murmured, keeping his eyes closed, and waving his hand.

Anakin felt the desire to obey him, and to let go of all the tension he had accumulated in the past months.

Sitting on the bed, he relaxed his shoulders, and took the chance to observe his strange costumer. Of average height, he was again dressed in a simple and solemn way: beige tunic and pants, boots and a dark grey cloak.

Studying the face closely, Anakin guessed the man had to be in his mid-thirty, and that the sprinkle of silver hair near his temples had been put there by worry or pain, and not by age. His face, partially covered by his beard was ruggedly handsome and strong. All in all, he was an attractive man, one who should not have problems finding company without needing to pay for it.

The last thought brought Anakin back to the present. He looked at his chrono and then cleared his voice. "Ahem…mister…I don't want to intrude, but my fee is 100 credits for 30 minutes, and it would be best if you do what you want to do soon, before your time is up."

The stranger did not open his eyes and simply said, "I am already doing what I came to do."

This time Anakin could not help but stare at the man mouth agape. The stranger was spending 100 credits only to stay there with his eyes closed?

He had to be crazy. Or impotent. Or both. Who else would spend so much money and have nothing in return? He could have understood if the man had ordered him to strip and touch himself as he watched, but this…

The 30 minutes soon came to the end, but even before Anakin could say anything, the stranger's eyes opened and he stood up, quickly and gracefully.

"Thank you for your time," he said, handing Anakin a credit chip. "I hope to see you again soon."

And speaking so, the man bowed his head and walked away, leaving behind a stunned Anakin.