Massaging of Thrawn

By:  Inari

BACKGROUND:

This piece originated on a Thrawn mailing list; the conversation had already dipped toward the lurid side with someone mentioning just how they'd love to pamper Thrawn. That led to discussion of putting Thrawn into a bathtub, with one person, Manda, claiming rights to feed him grapes and strawberries, while I wanted to bathe him and comb his hair out.

At that point, I saw the need to move it from the regular Thrawn fan list to the Thrawn EB list, so we could talk more…openly. From there it jumped to a comparison of what Thrawn would like most and what is the most erotic thing we'd do to pamper him. I mentioned wanting to massage him, but Manda felt that feeding one's lover was much more erotic.

What follows below is my response to Manda. And, I might add that I put my heart and soul into this most public profession of love for Thrawn, so I'll also make this public, too, just so no one misunderstands (George, that means YOU!):

DISCLAIMER: Star Wars® and Grand Admiral Thrawn™ are owned by Lucas Film Limited. No infringement is intended or implied by the writing of this work.

This work may NOT be reproduced, copied or otherwise displayed in any location in any form without express permission from the author.

"The Massaging of Thrawn" ©2001 IE Ries

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[Out of respect for the non-smut Thrawnlist, I am continuing this conversation here, per Colleen's suggestion]

--- Manda^^ <sailor_scorpio@b...> wrote: >>Wait a minute...*I* wanted to do the grape-feeding thing! :-P LOL>>

> :-Þ I don't think so! Besides, feeding a partner is MUCH more erotic than a massage!

Aaah, Manda...obviously you've never given or received one, then. There is nothing more erotic and arousing then an artfully done massage.

Imagine, if you will:

A dripping wet Thrawn (I chose to envision Julie Hitchcock's portrait of him), slowly rising from that bathtub, gingerly stepping out and onto a thick sectional rug.

You enclose his smooth, bath-moist skin with a luxurious cotton towel, dabbing him gently dry. A glimmer of a smile favors you.

He pads into the next room, and sits down on the bed, looking at you for a moment, and then swings his legs up onto the bed, lies back, and settles in.

You sit on the side of the bed and pull the tray of lightly scented massage oils toward you and begin preparation. Rubbing your palms together, heat from the friction now warms the oil in your hands.

His eyes are closed, and he's relaxed. His breathing is shallow and light. You stretch out your hands over that immaculate light blue, hairless chest, and draw your palms down the length of that magnificent body, spreading the oil as you go. He feels wonderful under your fingertips.

A good massage starts with tension relief in the head and neck, and you position yourself so that you are kneeling behind his head, knees near his temples. You massage his forehead, fingers dancing and gently rubbing therapeutic circular motions as you massage his temples, his cheeks, his lips...

He stirs slightly, eyes opening to slits revealing a deep, crimson glow; his mouth opens slightly to accommodate your fingers as you trace his lips.

His breathing is deeper and more rhythmic now; you work your way down his shoulders, kneading the thick, sculpted muscles of his arms and upper body. You so wondered what sort of masterpiece was hidden under that pristine white uniform; and now the soft blue flesh under your loving ministrations gives way to a soft sigh...

...you catch yourself. None of that, not now. This is supposed to be a gift to him, out of admiration; your way of communicating your adoration of him.

You work your way further down his body, working the hip muscles; your thumbs firmly rubbing circles in the crease of his groin and thighs now. He shifts again, arching a little and rolling his hips forward slightly to allow you access to his buttocks and the back of his thighs.

You moisten your hands with more oil and continue down his thighs; those strong, tight, long muscles are in your hands now, and your fingers press the tension out of them with exquisite precision.

You reposition yourself, kneeling at his feet, drawing one of his feet up, and resting it on your shoulder. Your fingers work the sole of his foot, the toes, his arch, the ankle, and up to his calve...

You notice that his hands, which had been flat on the bed and spread out in a resting position, now come to life; long blue fingers slowly flutter, gathering up fabric under them to grip and hold as you manipulate first one foot and leg, and then the other.

And now you let his second leg gently rest on the bed. He raises his head slightly, the crimson eyes watch, the pale blue lips take on a slightly indigo shade now, as has another part of his body.

He is like a monument at rest, sculpted and powerful, in control of himself, and you...

Another slight flicker of a smile crosses his lips. You sit beside him now, and gently run your fingertips down his swollen length...

How you adore him, the figurehead of the Empire, its crown jewel...you settle close to him and your tongue finds his naval, laving it, tasting him...the herbal residue of oil on his skin gives play as your tongue glides over him.

The fine print (how small can I make this?)... and all the usual disclaimers!  No, I'm not making any money.  It's just for fun.  George, please don't sue me.