Star Wars: Down Time

Despite his fatigue and the apprehension that gnawed at the back of his skull, Grand Moff Tarkin strode down the black corridors of the Death Star in the same crisp goose-stepping manner as always. The first test of the battle station’s destructive power had been a success, the Tarkin Doctrine now in full swing. The Emperor had been notified of Alderaan’s destruction, along with a detailed briefing outlining all the evidence, actual and fabricated, of that planet’s treasonous acts against His Majesty and his glorious Empire.

How the Emperor would truly respond, Tarkin was not entirely certain. Alderaan had been a thorn in Palpatine’s side for two decades as its senatorial representatives, including its newest Leia Organa, had constantly stirred resentment and argument within the increasingly flaccid Galactic Senate. But to destroy the world outright... this was unprecedented, to say the least. Nonetheless, a mean smile twisted Tarkin’s lips. He and Vader had agreed many times in their private conversations that Palpatine was teetering on the verge of madness, and Tarkin saw a glimpse in his mind’s eye of the Emperor giggling and clapping his hands like an insipid child at the news of a world’s demise in his name. But then again, he may not…no matter. Like this pitiful Rebellion, Palpatine’s reign existed on borrowed time…

As they came upon his quarter doors, Tarkin turned to his entourage of flanking officers. “Notify me when the Emperor has returned our transmission. Until then, I do not want to be disturbed.” Without acknowledging the officers’ affirmative nods, Tarkin strode through he door.

He went immediately to his desk, bringing up his private communications on his viewer: A message from his wife—delete: A short briefing from Daala, his mistress and protégé, from the Maw Installation. This one he read with mild interest, and was about to send his affirmation when he finally noticed the sweet odor of burning glimmer-spice wafting through the air…

He shut the viewer down and stepped around the corner leading from his private great room to the bedchamber. Before he even had a clear view, he was greeted by a voice that sardonically crooned, “Hard day at the office, dear?”

If black silk dipped in Saarlac venom had a sound, it would sound like Lylla.

Tarkin glowered at the long and lanky pleasure slave sprawled on her back across his huge bed like a krayt dragon in heat. He folded his arms. “I don’t recall sending for you, Lylla.”

Lylla giggled through her drag on the glimmer-spice joint, mindlessly flicking the ashes onto the silk bedspread. “I don’t recall you sending for me either, Wilhuff,” she purred as she exhaled the narcotic smoke out her nose.

Tarkin allowed her use of his first name slide. “Then what are you doing here?”

She rolled over to her stomach, tossing her bobbed crimson hair seductively over one eye and curling her lip into a hungry snarl. “What do you think I’m doing here? I want to fuck you.”

Tarkin narrowed his eyes as his own lip snarled upward. To this day, he still couldn’t decide if Lylla was absolutely fearless or the most reckless whore he had ever encountered.

Lylla was the most notorious pleasure slave on the Death Star. Whereas the other girls performed their duties with the expected loathing and shame prevalent amongst slaves of their caste, Lylla actually seemed to revel in her life’s lot. She was virtually insatiable sexually with an appetite for powerful men. And for a slave, she was strikingly attractive, which was also the reason she was a favorite amongst the high-ranking officers. Tall and slender with legs that seemed to stop at her ears, Lylla was always in high demand and the best compensated slave on board.

Since she was a slave and not affiliated whatsoever with the Imperial Courtesan caste, Tarkin would generally have nothing to do with such trash. But Lylla possessed, even embraced a quality the other pleasure slaves did not, a quality Tarkin found extremely pleasing, even erotic for him: She was a sadistic harpy who actually found arousal in the suffering of others. She amused Tarkin.

Nevertheless, he rubbed his eyes as he unfastened the lapel of his stiff uniform. “Need I remind you, Lylla, that you have no right to enter my quarters without exclusive permission? I could have you severely punished for this.”

Lylla raised an eyebrow as she purred, “Oh Wilhuff, would you? Please?”

He almost chuckled at her response. Instead, he replied, “I am not in the mood for your games, Lylla. It has been a long day, and I am weary.”

“Yes, I know,” she said as she elongated herself even more in a cat-like stretch on the bed. “Torturing young princesses and blowing up their homeworlds can really take a lot out of you.”

He had reached the short end of his temper with that comment. He stalked over to the slave and grabbed a fistful of her copper-hued hair while snatching the joint out of her hand. He jerked her head up so she could see his displeasure. But rather then being frightened, Lylla met his glare with her serpentine eyes and emitted a low, throaty, intoxicated laugh.

Tarkin felt his loins twinge. Still holding her hair, he lowered his lids and sighed, “You are a cruel bitch, Lylla.”

Lylla’s smile spread even wider. “You love my cruelty, Tarkin.” The smile faded and her voice lowered even more as her eyes slit and she lightly fondled her own nipple through her sheer black body sheath. “I AM your cruelty.”

She released her breast and slid her hand up inside Tarkin’s thigh, her thumb delicately playing with the increasing bulge emerging there. “I saw the explosion through the viewport near my quarters. I loved it, Wilhuff. I just wanted to tell you that. I just wanted to…help you celebrate.” She expertly reached into the fly of his pants and undid the fasteners. Her eyes became large with fake innocence. “Will you let me do that, Tarkin?”

He dropped the joint in his hand and crushed it out with his boot. Still holding her hair, he reached in his fly and pulled out his member as it flushed with its increasing blood flow. He pulled Lylla’s head closer. With a lascivious sneer, Lylla ran her tongue along his shaft’s underside, teasing the fleshy fold just under the head, before greedily taking it entirely into her mouth.

Tarkin inhaled sharply, loosening his hold on her hair only slightly as she engrossed herself in her unique talent. She daintily encircled her fingers around his rod, and they moved in sync with the rhythm of her mouth. She giggled slightly in her throat, and the vibrations shot up his shaft and sent shivers through his body. She mused how Tarkin’s slight physical build betrayed the actual size of his rather impressive cock. She could say the same of his age, as he possessed a virility, prowess, and appetite that made men half his age seem weak and impotent. These qualities, combined with his absolute power on the Death Star, made Tarkin the only man on board that Lylla actually feared and respected, despite her reckless behavior. Well, maybe not the ONLY man—the ultimate challenge had not been attempted yet…

It was only when Lylla began massaging the head of his cock with the back of her tongue that Tarkin pulled her off him. His breathing only slightly accelerated, he lifted her by her hair into a kneeling position on the bed. “You work too eagerly, my dear,” he whispered harshly into her face. He grasped her pert breast, rubbing the nipple between his fingers. “If this is indeed a celebration, let us make it last, shall we?” With that, he ripped the sheer garment from her shoulders. Starting at her neck, he grazed his teeth against her flesh, working down to take the nipple into his bite.

Lylla threw herself back into an arch, letting out a growl. Tarkin reached around her and grabbed the cheek of her firm buttocks, pulling her into his stiff erection. She ran her hands through his hair as he assaulted her with his mouth, biting and nipping at her alabaster flesh. He reached down and pulled the hem of her sheath upwards. Sliding his fingers into her panties, he drove his fingers into her fleshy delta already dripping with lusty juice, deeply thrusting and hooking them upwards with every pulse. Lylla dug her nails into the back of Tarkin’s neck as she rode his hand, roaring her pleasure through gritted teeth, rubbing her breasts against his uniform and the hard insignia pins. He continued to pound his hand into her, relentlessly, savagely, never taking his eyes off hers, reveling in his supremacy over her …

She grabbed the front of his uniform as she came, screaming her orgasm to the ceiling, uncaring of anyone who might hear it. Tarkin gripped the back of her head as he snarled into her face, “That’s it, Lylla, SCREAM for me…good girl…”

He allowed her no rest in her afterglow. Pulling his hand out, he grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bed into the great room. He came around to his desk and sat in the chair as Lylla furiously unfastened his jacket and waistband of his pants. “You know I like it like this, don’t you Lylla?” Tarkin reached under her dress once again and ripped the panties from her body as she straddled him. Coaxing his cock erect once again, Lylla settled the head of it into her soaking sex and unabashedly plunged herself down. In one deft move, she grabbed the high back of the chair and lifted her long legs to rest on the arms as she moved his shaft in and out of her, moaning and arching.

Tarkin never reacted. He merely sat there, clenching his teeth as he watched Lylla frantically fuck him. At one point, he reached down and rubbed her clit with his thumb, sending her into an orgasmic frenzy. As she screamed again, he smiled a short, curt smile. Lylla, despite her coarseness and low class, was most definitely his favorite guilty pleasure.

Steadying herself, she lowered her legs and continued to ride him fervently. She squeezed herself around his cock, pulling and pulsating with her finely tuned muscles. It was then she could see that he was close to succumbing to her as well, and she knew exactly what to do to help him along…

She leaned into his ear and, still wildly bucking her hips growled, “Could you hear them, Wilhuff? All those people, all that life…could you hear them scream...?” She bit his earlobe. “Show me, Tarkin…to have power over life and death…show me what it feels like to be a GOD…”

Tarkin’s climax ripped through him like the Death Star’s blast ripped through Alderaan. He could no longer hold his inexpressive demeanor—he thrust himself up, holding his own roar in his throat while he grabbed Lylla by the throat and clenched. Lylla in turn came once again, her scream strangled in her throat by lack of air.

Panting, he released her throat. Lylla laughed between gasps of air. Tarkin sunk slightly into his chair as Lylla still sat on top of him. He chucked her chin. “Ah, Lylla…you could have given a man a fine son. Tis a shame that you’re barren trash.”

Lylla’s smile disintegrated into a furious scowl. She pushed herself off Tarkin as she bellowed, “FUCK YOU!” Her breath caught in her throat as she immediately realized what she had done, but remained still and defiant as she stood before him.

The chuckle started low in Tarkin’s chest, eventually working its way to his lips. He causally refastened his trousers and jacket. “I’ll let that go, Lylla. My way of thanking you for a pleasant evening. But remember this,” he muttered as his hand shot forth and gripped her jaw, “Know your place from now on. As of three hours ago, I have come to understand my place in this universe. I suggest you understand yours.” He shoved her back slightly. “You may leave now.”

Lylla’s eyes narrowed as her lip curled up. Turning on her heel, she strode into the bedchamber and ripped the silk cover from the bed. Stopping in the doorway, she tore her tattered black sheath off her body and wrapped the cover around herself, just barely draping it over her breasts and letting it sling low on her ass. She blew a kiss to Tarkin from across the great room.

“Goodnight, GOD,” she said in a low hiss, then casually strode out the door into the corridor.

She stopped and leaned against the doors for a moment, fully aware of the glances and stares of the passing troopers and officers and meeting their eyes with lustful recognition. Slinging her shredded clothing lazily over her shoulder, she began to saunter down the black corridor toward her quarters. She came around a corner to see the enormous black tower of armor and machinery that was Lord Vader at the other end.

The adrenaline rush instantly coursed through Lylla. She stopped and leaned again on the corridor’s wall as Vader and his flanking entourage made their way toward her. She fixed her eyes directly on the Dark Lord’s mask as all others in the corridor lowered theirs. She reached up and tousled her hair, hoping he would take notice.

He did. He was about to pass her when he stopped. He turned his mask to her and raised a hand to halt his entourage. The Dark Lord and the pleasure slave stood for a while, meeting the other’s gaze, never flinching.

Lylla heard his voice although he did not speak. It echoed through her mind, her limbs like a rumble of far off thunder…

She dropped her lids from his mask to scan his armored bulk up and down before she answered in a soft heavy murmur, “A man, my Lord.” She raised her eyes to his behind the mask and smiled. She pushed herself off the wall, purposely dropping the sheet only slightly and closing the gap of space between them for a brief second, before bowing her head and turning her back to him. She kept her head turned toward Vader, still smiling, as she strolled slowly down the corridor.

Vader stood and watched Lylla until she had turned the corner. Slowly, he turned his mask back toward his point of destination and gestured to his entourage to follow.