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Training Exercise

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Cold metal cuffs slam around your wrists, the sound of the locking mechanism a loud, ominous snick.

“What the fuck, Mando?” you sputter, dropping your spoon into the bowl in front of you.

“How would you get out of this?”

Stars. Another test. You push down your rising irritation with a deep inhale, sitting up straight and letting your imprisoned forearms rest on the edge of the table down in the hold of the Razor Crest. “So I’ve been captured?” you ask, probing for the parameters of the exercise he has in mind.

“Yes.” He stands a few feet away from you, leaning against the bulkhead, settling in to observe. “Now you’re in a holding cell. One guard.”

You smirk at him. “You’re the guard?”

His helmet inclines a few inches. “What’s your play?”

The question is delivered evenly, soft and simple, with only the tiniest note of challenge. He still doesn’t believe you can handle yourself as well as you say you can. The reminder raises your hackles. “I’m not really in the mood for this.”

“You think I care if you’re in the mood?” The modulator does little to smooth the harshness with which he barks the statement.

You try not to flinch. Getting into his role already; at least, you try to tell yourself that’s all his change in tone means. Plus, it’s kind of hot when he yells at you. Not that you’d let him know that.

You sigh, and prop your elbows up on the table, examining the cuffs. They are a solid piece, two inches thick in a figure eight shape with a seam in the clasp so flush that it’s almost invisible. There’s an interface on it above your wrists, placed where your own fingers couldn’t possibly reach but would be convenient to your captors. You know enough about this model to know there’s a way to hack the lock, but not enough to actually be able to do it.

You look over at the Mandalorian. He’s facing you squarely now, thumbs resting in his utility belt, the helmet’s eye slit angled like he’s watching you closely. He doesn’t move a muscle, just waiting to see what you’ll do.

You do your best to ignore the tingling feeling his intimidation sends washing through your body. You feel the weight of his gaze like the heat of a sun against the cheek and shoulder that are angled toward him as you look back down at the cuff around your wrists.

What’s your play? he had asked. You arch your back a little more, giving the Mandalorian a better view of your body. You’ve got tricks he can’t teach you, and your irritation has turned into an overwhelming urge to rub that in, now. You sit poised like a pin-up girl as you pick up the spoon from your abandoned meal and stick it backwards into your mouth, then use the chisel-shaped back end of it to probe clumsily at the locking mechanism.

Mando shifts in the corner of your vision, moving just a little bit closer. “You know I can see you, right?” The edge of derision in his voice only spurs you on.

You look up at him, shifting the spoon in your mouth so he has to watch your pink tongue lick out along the edge of it. His upper body pulls back with a start. “I know.” You smile lasciviously around the stick of metal. “If I was alone with one guard, I’d convince him to step closer to me.”

The lower edge of his helmet drops in acknowledgement, and then his blaster clears its holster, in his hand and pointed straight at you faster than you can blink. “Cut that out. Drop the spoon.”

You turn in your chair, knees spread just a little immodestly, so the bottom edge of your tunic creates an intriguing little darkness between your legs for your “guard” to ponder. It’s hard to decide if the man behind the helmet is taking the bait, but you’re going to carry on your demonstration as best you can. You hold the spoon between your teeth and then relax your jaw, turning your lips into a pouty little ‘o’ as the spoon falls straight down into your lap. You suck in a big breath that makes your breasts swell as you look down at it, nestled between your thighs. “Come and get it.”

The Mandalorian seems to hesitate. “Is this really your best strategy?”

“You’d be surprised how often it works.”

His visor is angled just a little too low for you to think he’s looking at your face. He could, of course, take the exercise in any direction that he wants. He could play a guard that’s smarter than his libido right now, or one that doesn’t find you attractive at all. So maybe it means something when he chooses to relax his grip on the blaster, and steps closer, playing along. “It’s no use trying to escape,” he intones, resuming the game as he looms over you, blaster still pointed at your head, though at a lazier angle.

It shouldn’t be as hot is it, to stare up at the enigmatic Mandalorian warrior from your helpless position like this. Though the warm, prickling feeling that spreads through your lower body only makes the game easier. You form your lips into a little pout. “I’ve got to do something to pass the time.” You extend one foot, ankle making contact with the inside of his knee, then slide it up between his legs, past the defense of the metal plates on his thighs. You stare at his eye slit the whole time, tongue peeking out to play at the bottom of your teeth. “You want to put something else in my mouth?”

You feel him flinch. But to his credit, he leans into his discomfort, and into your personal space. “You’d like that.” His words come out in that flat, measured way he has, but the underlying tone is somewhere between brusque and incredulous.

You’re not sure if you’re freaking him out or turning him on, but a heady rush of excitement propels you forward. You give him a slow, sultry shrug as you stare up at him. “Maybe I’ve got a thing for being tied up.” You rock your ankle back and forth against his inner thigh.

The Mandalorian stares down at you, maddeningly still. His body language only shifts when he finally speaks. “Did I mention the guard is a Gamorrean? A particularly ugly one.”

He’s teasing you. You can just imagine a shit-eating grin extending behind his beskar mask. You reach your cuffed arms up, refusing to back down. “Then I’d be sure to stroke a finger down his tusk.” His helmet is cold under your fingertip as you dare to mime the action, sliding your touch down the groove of his iron cheek.

The blaster pointed vaguely at your temple never wavers. You’re close enough now to see that it’s not currently armed, though that information does little to dampen the chill of having a weapon aimed at your head, in a hand that has never hesitated to kill. Mando leans in and presses his other hand between your legs, retrieving the spoon. He takes his time about it, just as a big ugly half-seduced guard would do, digging his fingers unnecessarily into your soft thighs and dragging his knuckles against the sensitive spot between.

Your breath catches. You had been bluffing; you wouldn’t actually enjoy this if he had been a real guard of any species, but when Mando is the one groping between your legs you can’t help but spread them a little wider.

His head is only inches from yours. You stare into the eye slit of his helmet, knowing that somewhere behind there he’s staring right back at you. The shape of the beskar knows only one emotion: menace. You have no fucking idea what expression lies behind the mask.

His knuckle rolls again, right over your clit, making hot arousal bloom so hard and fast that your muscles turn to jelly.

His helmet tilts, and he speaks in his quiet voice again. “You’re not making your move now?”

It takes a second for your brain to catch up. Mando assumed you were luring the guard inside your reach so you could whip out some kind of flashy combat skills and disable him. Of course he did. That’s what he would do.

Evidently, you take too long to respond. He removes your opportunity to act. “Get up!” The Mandalorian grabs at the cuff around your wrists, yanking you to your feet. He holsters the blaster as he crowds your body, backing you up into the wall. Cold beskar presses between your thighs, making sure your legs stay open as you slam back against the bulkhead.

You resist a little on instinct, your mind now torn between winning the game and just enjoying the feeling of his body against yours. He overpowers you easily, forcing your hands up over your head. There’s a clicking sound, and then both of Mando’s gloved palms are running down your arms, though they’re still locked in place. He’s magnetized the wrist cuff to the bulkhead. Fuck. You didn’t know it could do that.

His beskar face looms just inches above your own. His grip doesn’t flinch as his hands run down from your arms to your flanks, feeling along your ribs in a touch that’s more sexually charged than you’d thought him capable of. “You’ve chosen a strategy that can get you in over your head, fast.” His voice sounds a little tight behind the modulator. His hands slide down to grip your waist. “Would you really let it get this far?” You can hear him breathing now, fast and hard. His fingers knead at the tops of your hips. “Dirty yourself, letting a filthy guard touch you this way?” There’s a hint of a whine under his accusatory tone, and you start to think the Mandalorian might be even more turned on by this game than you are.

You don’t answer, not sure what to say that wouldn’t ruin whatever’s starting to happen. Mando’s hands travel up your body, thumbs daring to skim underneath your breasts.

“No play yet?” he challenges, voice sounding a little lower, a little rougher. “Still not ready to make your move? This is only going to get worse for you.” His palms skim over your tits, but he seems to be holding himself back, barely making contact. “Better do something before he starts taking off your clothes.”

Absolutely you want him to start taking off your clothes. But this is just a training exercise, isn’t it? You’ll probably just make things awkward if you delay any longer, sitting here enjoying an excuse to get groped by the Mandalorian. Time to make your next play. “Okay big boy,” you purr, barely keeping a straight face as you try to imagine seducing a giant pig-man, “let me make you feel really good.” You slide your cheek against Mando’s helmet, dropping your voice into a throaty half-whisper above where his ear would be. “Give me one of my hands free, and I promise you won’t regret it.”

He pulls the pressure of his body off yours, just a little. Considering. You writhe against him, whispering ‘please’ and dragging your knee up the inside of his leg to show him where your hand would want to go. Before you can make contact with your target, Mando reaches up and presses a button on the cuff. “That... that would probably work on a big, dumb guard. I’ll give you that.” His voice sounds a little breathy, but he’s rallying himself. “Let’s see what you can accomplish with only one hand.”

The steel around one of your wrists retreats. The other one remains locked to the wall. “Oh, I can do plenty,” you say, bringing your palm down to the cloth-covered opening between his helmet and pauldron. It’s hard to grope a man wearing full body armor; all you can do is massage at that firm muscle that connects his shoulder and neck, hoping that the pressure feels nice through the canvas-like fabric that covers his skin here.

His fingers flex where they span your waist, a sudden dig that seems involuntary. He can’t be used to even such a blunted touch as this one, you suppose. He turns his gesture into a more obscene caress, sliding down your hips, grinding your pelvis tighter against the beskar thigh thrust between your legs. You don’t have to fake the moan that falls from your throat.

“Definitely a dirty girl,” he says, and squeezes your ass with both hands. Now you’re really not sure if he’s speaking as the guard or himself. His voice has dropped low and the modulator can’t smooth out the pleasure that’s thickening it. “Offering yourself up like this…” His cold helmet presses against your temple as the Mandalorian brings his whole body closer, nestling his head between your cheek and your upraised arm, the one that’s still locked to wall of the ship above your head. He grunts as he digs his fingers into the widest part of your bottom, and you groan. “You like it rough?”

“Yeah,” you moan, not sure if you’re playing your character anymore either, afraid to say anything that might make him stop. You abandon his neck to slide your free hand down past the beskar chestplate, seeking warmth in the space at his flank where something approaching soft and human is accessible to your touch. You can feel him breathing here, fast and deep. His hips writhe, pressing that solid flesh above his lower ribs more firmly into your palm.

“So pliant. So soft.” His tone has gone softer, appreciative. One hand stays on your ass while the other travels up your back, scooping you closer to him, until your chest is flattened by solid metal as he all but dry humps you against the wall.

Your fingers tease at his belt line, searching for entrance. A splash of nerves cools your belly at this point; you’ve never seen the Mandalorian undressed in any way, and you worry how he might react to you trying to get under his clothes. There’s always the chance you’re mis-reading this situation horribly. He’ll stop you if you cross a line, you’re certain, but you want to go slowly enough to make sure the sin is not too egregious.

Mando seems to sense your hesitation, slowing down too. “If you’re thinking about going for my gun,” he says, “you’re telegraphing.”

Apparently, he still thinks you’re thinking about the training exercise. He hasn’t lifted his head from where it’s nestled into your shoulder, however. His hands have slowed but they’re still cupping you.

“Not going for your gun.” Your fingers skim along his lower belly, finding the buckle of his belt.

“No?” Mando breathes.

You squeeze the clasp, releasing it with a click that seems way louder than it should be in the empty galley of the ship. His exhale carries just enough vocalization for the modulator to pick it up, sounding akin to and yet wholly different from the heavy sighs that escape him when you or the child are being frustrating. He gives you no other reaction but that.

You dare to stick one finger down inside his waistband. His heavy shirt is tucked in and so you still haven’t contacted any skin. You can’t even pretend to try to read his face, with the front of his helmet still pressed into the crook of your neck. Your finger tugs at his clothes and his body shifts against you but you can’t tell if he’s pulling away or shifting to give you better access.

You lose your nerve. “And then I would,” you narrate, stopping yourself, “you know…” Your finger points down toward his cock, trying not to think about what it would feel like to scoop your hand over it, wondering if you would find it hard or soft…

He lifts his head, only far enough to stare into your face through that shielded slit in his helmet. After a short, measured silence, he speaks. “Go ahead.”

Somehow you can’t wrap your head around the statement. “Um, what?” You feel your hand curling up, starting to withdraw in an awkward defensive reflex, though one finger is still stuck inside his waistband.

He cocks his head, and you can just feel him taking your measure. His open hands caress up and down your back, and your body responds, curling into the touch. You realize your mouth is hanging open as you continue to meet his impenetrable beskar gaze.

“Don’t you want to see if your plan is going to work? I know I do.”

Well, fuck. You rotate your wrist and press your whole palm into his lower belly, fingers pointing down. You can actually feel his warmth here, and the way his breathing speeds up as you slide your hand lower against him. When your fingertips reach bare skin he moans. It sounds like he tried to keep it in but it just slipped out anyway. He clutches you closer to him again as you skim down along course hairs and hot skin.

What is happening here? Does he really want you to wrap your fingers around his cock, like you’re so close to doing right now? His whole body is tense, you realize, and his fingers are digging into your skin almost painfully.

You slow your approach, not wanting him to snap under that tension. Or for him to snap you. You scratch your fingertips softly into the trail of hairs you feel leading you toward your prize.

“Fuck,” he groans, and pushes his whole body against you, all but crushing you against the bulkhead.

Now you can’t move your hand. But in the midst of all the hard edges of his armor, you can feel one thing poking into you that definitely isn’t beskar.

So the Mandalorian does want you. His helmet presses into the crook of your neck; you just know that if it weren’t in the way he’d be mouthing open kisses all over your throat. He keeps your hand trapped between the press of your bodies, the other still cuffed up to the wall, while his roam freely all over you. This time when he reaches your breasts he lets himself feel, scooping over your pillowy flesh and trapping a nipple between his thumb and the side of his hand.

The pressure is just short of pain and you mewl at the pleasure and desire it sends blooming up through your core. Your reaction encourages him and he tears at the opening in the front of your tunic, struggling to get at your bare flesh.

The savagery pulls a gasp from your throat, and that sound makes him pause. “I said this strategy was a dangerous game.” His helmet shifts so he can get a better look at your face. “Do you want to keep going?”

You nod. “I like this game.”

His real voice, not the aggressive character, slides out soft and even from the modulator. “I like it too.”

You press your hand harder, down where it’s trapped between your bellies, tickling your fingers toward his root. “Then let’s keep playing.”

The groan that reaches your ears through his modulator might be the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard, as he changes the angle of his hips and gives you room to reach him. Well, it was the most delicious sound, until you hear the next one to come out of his mouth, even deeper, even longer, as you find his thick shaft and curl your fingers eagerly around it.

His length had been stuck a little down one pant leg. He gives a pleasured hiss as you free him from the confinement, scooping him in your palm to point straight up between your bodies. One of his hands leaves your waist just so he can hold himself up against the wall; you must have made him go a little weak in the knees. You purr a little “mmm” in the back of your throat in satisfaction, to see the Mandalorian in such a state. His cock is thick and velvety smooth and already twitching in your palm as you give him a few slow, steady pumps.

His noise of pleasure is almost a wail, and without warning he slams a palm into the center of your chest, pushing you back into the bulkhead again. His fingers slide up to bridge your throat, exerting just enough pressure to set warning bells off in your head, and to slow your hand.

“Fu-uck,” is all he says by way of explaining himself. Then he uses both hands to pull your tunic up your body, exposing everything above your leggings to the cool air jetting from the ship’s recyclers all at once. “Off,” he growls as he tugs the fabric against your armpits, forcing you to let go of his glorious cock and let him pull the tunic off over your arm and head.

With your left arm still cuffed to the wall, the shirt has to just kind of hang there on one shoulder, but Mando has succeeded in freeing the soft flesh of your neck, your chest, and your belly. He gazes down at you for an endless moment, then begins to assault everything he has exposed with hands covered in gloves and arms coated in steel.

You know that his gloves are augmented with some kind of sensors that transmit more information than the leather look of them would imply. You wonder what your pebbled nipples and rarely-bared skin feel like to him. He certainly has the touch of someone with perfect sensitivity as he sculpts and squeezes you; he plays with your nipples and adores the rest of your flesh until you’re panting for him.

You shove your hand back into his pants. You have to make him feel how he’s making you feel, to return this sweet torture. He moans again, and thrusts himself into your hand.

You strain against the wrist that’s cuffed to the wall. If only—of course. The plan hits you all at once. While you’re dying to explore these unexpected sexytimes with Mando, your pride is still itching at you to try and win the game.

“I-I want you, babe,” you say, making the sound of the words bottom out in your throat. “Want you in my mouth.” You squeeze him from root to tip and try to drop down in front of him, dangling off the cuff like you’ve lost all control. “Please let me—let me get on my knees for you.”

Mando curses through his teeth and presses the button to release your wrist without even hesitating. As your arm falls you lean into him, feigning like you’re going to do just as you said. Then you square your stance and twist, shoving him toward the wall, using your grip on his cock like a handle. In a real fight you would have hurt him bad right there, but this is just practice, just training. Just an exercise. You don’t squeeze him hard enough to do any damage.

And as soon as you’ve twisted his momentum to the side, you’re pushing off the wall, sprinting for the hatch out of the hold, and sweet, sweet victory.

A hand like iron clamps onto your shoulder; something catches your leg, and then you’re falling, with a heavy body riding you down. You twist into the fall so it’s not ugly, absorbing the impact with thigh and forearms. Then the Mandalorian is pressing your bare chest into the decking.

“Don’t think you got away with anything, there,” he says as he climbs more firmly on top of you. You turn your head to see his beskar face looming near your cheek. “I knew what you were up to.”

“Then why did it work?”

“I just wanted to feel you run.” He presses his body over yours, armor plates grinding into your thighs and back, shoving your hips flat against the deck too so you have no leverage to try and escape. “Now. What were you saying about your mouth?” His hand leaves your shoulder to grab up a section of your hair, tugging tight at the back of your head, forcing your face up toward him. “Ready to make good on that promise?”

You nod, frantically, but as much as you’d love to suck him down, the feeling of his whole body grinding you into the deck is driving you crazy. You curl your ass up against him, with the tiny amount of movement his pressure will allow. You want more than anything else for him to just fuck you through the floor right here.

Mando’s hand runs down your naked side, pushing at the waistband of your leggings when he reaches them. “Or maybe I’ll just—”

“Yes!” you cry, “oh please,” arching your back, scrambling to help him get your clothes out of the way.

His answering growl roars wild and alien through the modulator right beside your ear. You take more of his weight as his chest presses against your upper body so he can use both hands to clear all the barriers  below your waists. You can choose to help him with your hands too, or you can hold yourself up with your forearms so you have room to actually breathe under his crushing weight.

You choose to sacrifice your breath. Your bare chest crushes into the cold decking as you shove your leggings down past your ass, and spit into your fingers so you can lubricate his path. That thick cock of his might have a hard time getting in, in a position like this, but it’s going to be so worth it.

Cool beskar gauntlets slide against your lower back and ass as Mando’s hands work at his own trousers in the small space between your bodies. His panting breath crackles through the modulator above your ear, sounding even louder since you can barely suck a breath in yourself under his weight. He moans when he notices you stroking your own slit, readying the way for him. You’ve worked your hand under one hip so you can reach yourself even as he’s crushing you. You’re already wetter than you expected, but you make sure to drag that moisture all over your sensitive folds.

As soon as he’s gotten himself free you feel his fat head probing at you. Some of the pressure comes off your chest as he slams his other hand against the deck near your face, holding himself up so he has a little more control. You think at first that he’s lining himself up, as Mando swirls himself around your entrance, and so you arch your back, present your hips as much as you can for him. As he keeps moving you realize he’s playing; savoring, scooping that moisture all over his tip before finally deciding to press inside.

The stretch is intense, and it just keeps coming. Now you have another reason not to be able to breathe. The pleasure in that invasion is white-hot and overwhelming, and he feels impossibly long, impossibly deep as he flattens you into the floor like this. You relax everything and focus on just taking it, on taking him.

Finally, finally, the timeless plunge reaches its end, as his hips come to rest against your bottom. He stays there, arms scooping around your shoulders, helmet pressed against your cheek, and lets out a long, shuddering exhale. Then he starts pumping. Long, measured, relentless thrusts drill into you, each one as deep and overwhelming as the first. The pleasure rips through you like a wildfire, melting and invigorating your limbs both at once.

And in this position you don’t have to do anything. Just lay there and take it, let Mando claim you, press further and further until you feel like your entire being is nothing but the cunt he’s hammering into, a vessel for pleasure as he grunts and curses above you, losing himself just the same in the meeting of your bodies.

Your pleasure builds, clamoring for release. You realize one of your hands is still trapped under your body, and with the small movement your current state will allow you to make, you get your finger onto your clit.

It doesn’t take much, just the slightest targeted pressure, to harness the wild ecstasy that’s been building in your core. Your muscles lock, your body clamps, and all that needy pleasure spirals so intense that you hear a rushing in your ears.

“Oh, fuck, are you coming?” Mando groans, his modulated voice so close and yet a million miles away. He presses deeper, more eagerly at the very idea, and that pushes you right over the edge. You wail like an animal and curl up under him, except you can’t, the floor’s too solid, he’s too solid, and you cum with every muscle in your body straining against a steel prison that keeps you flat and helpless.

He rides you through it all, pumping faster, harder, grunting with the effort and making your orgasm feel like it’s never going to end under the relentless way he fucks you. Even when the crest passes and your body goes limp, he keeps going, driving himself like your lives depend on it, as relentless as you’ve seen him in battle. Tears form in your eyes as his cock won’t let your body come down. You feel everything inside you tensing up for another orgasm by the time his breathing goes ragged and you know he’s close too.

When the Mandalorian comes he finally lets it all go, burying himself in you to the hilt and wailing with a sound so raw it makes your heart crack and your body clench around him. Your second orgasm makes the tears fall from your eyes; all your limbs collapse together as your cunt milks every last drop of his release out of him.

The first one to move after the rush fades is him; his helmet comes into view from where you lay with your cheek pressed against the deck. His leather-tipped finger soaks up the tear that was threatening to fall over the bridge of your nose. “Was—” his voice is thick and he has to clear his throat before he can continue, “—was I too rough?”

You make a reassuring sound, the closest you can get to words for a moment. You shake your head, just a little. “Fuck. No. Loved that.”

You wonder if that makes him smile behind the mask. Your voice came out raspy, made you both conscious of the fact that most of the weight of a seasoned warrior, plus a hell of a lot of solid beskar, still lies squarely on top of you. While the sensation was a turn-on, you still make a little sound of relief when he rolls off you, laying on his back by your side.

His helmeted head rolls to face you. You’re sure you look like a hot mess, laying there mostly naked, ass up, with your face in the deck, but you feel amazing. Mando reaches up one gloved hand and presses two fingertips lightly to your lips. It feels like a kiss, so you purse your lips and kiss back, keeping your eyes locked on his eye slit. He lifts his hand to your temple, brushing his fingers through your mussed hair.

“I guess you showed me.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s referring to the training exercise. “I thought you said it didn’t work on you.”

His helmet inclines. “It worked.”

You smile. Maybe you preen, just a little. “Satisfied, then, that I can handle myself?”

“Definitely not.”

He just lays there while you pout at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He lifts his arm, beckoning you to peel yourself off the floor and come cuddle against him. You pull your tunic back on before you comply; bare skin against beskar doesn’t sound quite as appealing now that the heat of passion has fled.

You cuddle into the crook of his arm, finding a decent enough pillow on the inside of his bicep. Only once he’s got you curled against him to his liking, does he explain himself. “You are not going to be fucking your way out of trouble while you’re with me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I forbid it.”

You try not to let him feel you shiver at what his tone does to you. “Is that so.”

“It is.”

“If you don’t respect my skills—”

“I do,” he cuts you off. “But they’re only for me, now.” His body shifts where you’re curled against him, his hand clutching against your back. “We can play this game again, as often as you like, but..” he reaches over and slaps your ass hard enough to sting, “now I’ve also got to start teaching you how to actually fight.”