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Title: The Break
Time period: Any time after episode III but before ROTJ
Author: Elle
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Vader(Anakin)/original female
Category: PWP (somewhat ABH)
Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit. It all belongs to
Lucas (although some was borrowed from Troy Denning).
Summary: Totally unmitigated porn.


**********************************************************************


You are slumped back in an uncomfortable booth in Mawbo's dance hall, waiting for the night to start, when the Imperials arrive. You do not expect them to come to your table; you are a whore on Tatooine, hardly worth the attention of the Empire.

Mawbo shouts at them when they move to arrest you. You do not belong to her as such, but you do pay her a small monthly fee to use her property to pick up tricks. The other dancers hate you because the men still come to you first, half hidden in a dark booth, while they slink around on stage, in the bright lights. Mawbo looks at you with as much
maternal affection as is possible for her, something that boggles you and the other dancers. You suspect she may have plied your trade once, a long time ago.

So when the stormtroopers close their gloved hands around your upper arms, Mawbo curses and threatens them. They ignore her. Everyone else in the hall is either too surprised or terrified to move.

Your boots hit the sand outside, dragging and kicking, fighting them every step. You suspect you've been mistaken for someone else. You also suspect it won't matter. They'll torture and kill you anyway. Bile and fear burn your throat.

* * *


You are taken aboard a capital ship hovering over Tatooine and led down a long white corridor. By this time you've given up fighting. You have nowhere to run to now.

You realize as you listen to the stormtroopers jeering among themselves that they know you are a whore. One pushes the end of his gun against your bottom suggestively. If they know who you are, then why bring you here? You open your mouth to form the question but know they won't answer anyway. A harsh life on a harsh planet has taught you when to be
silent.

They stop in front of a pair of large metal doors. The doors hiss open and they push you in, but they do not follow. You turn around quickly, but the door seals shut behind you. The room is white and feels cold and clinical. The lighting is too bright for comfort. You turn away from the door shaking because you know you are not alone. The room is empty except for a chair against the far wall. Sitting in the chair is a man even you recognize. Your stomach is tight and cold with terror. You are very certain you are going to die.

The rasp of his breathing fills the room. You think he is staring at you, but it is impossible to tell behind the lenses of his mask.

Then he speaks. His voice is somehow horrible and fascinating at the same time. He says, "You will be paid."

It takes you a moment to grasp his meaning. Then you do feel sick, very sick, which is odd because now you know you are not going to die. You suspect this will involve pain,  robably a lot of it. Ironically the ones who like pain always wear black masks...or make you wear them.

Your palms press sweaty prints on the door behind you. You're breathing is harsh and irregular.

He speaks again. He says, "Take off your clothes."

Part II.

When he tells you to take off your clothes, you feel slightly calmer. You've stripped for plenty of faceless men in your young life, and he will be no different...or so you tell yourself. Professionalism sets in and your hands are steady as you unbutton the rather sheer tunic you were wearing. When it hits the floor you bend over to pull your tight
breeches from the tops of your boots. You slide them off, leaving the boots on. Most men like it when the boots stay on because they are glossy and black and high-heeled. You like it when they stay on because you know the floor will be cold.

When you straighten you are otherwise completely naked. You have never bothered with underwear. Your hair is long and covers your breasts, so you push it back over your shoulders. You look at him without really seeing him, pretending that he is just another rough-handed farm worker or trader.

You take a step toward him, but he raises a black-gloved hand. "No," he says. "Stay there."

You keep quiet. Then he says, "Touch yourself."

You are surprised, not because this is the first time you've received such a request, but because it suggests that he will not be touching you. You wonder if he is unable to perform. The rasping of his mask would seem to imply that he can't.

He doesn't move to touch himself either, which is unusual. Instead you use the sound of breathing as your rhythm. You run the tip of your tongue along your fingers, gliding them through your hair and down to your breasts. You pinch your nipples roughly and gasp as they harden. An old trick to feign arousal. You slide your fingertips down the center of your body, past your navel to the thatch of hair between your legs.

You close your eyes and expect him to command you open them. He does not. You tease the lips of your vulva with feather-light strokes, before spreading them so he can see. You moan, faking completely, but sounding convincing.

Then something tightens hot and low in your belly. The room is no longer cold but warm as a Tatooine dawn. You smell the rich scent of warm leather around you and gasp as your skin tingles, hyper-sensitive. You don't dare open your eyes. You know he is still across the room. You can hear him. But you feel him, around you, dark and warm and touching you so whisper-light you think you might have imagined it. Your skin is hot and heavy in a good way and when your hand travels back to your sex you find yourself wet. You don't need to fake a moan as you touch yourself. He does not touch you per se, but he is around you, against you, everywhere at once. The sensation is foreign, terrifying and electric. You have an eerie feeling that he is using your hands, feeling the same thing you do, whenever you brush your skin.

You are so choked with this strange arousal that you come the instant your fingers touch your clit. You sink to your knees, biting back a sob. Your cheeks are wet and salty with tears of humiliation and need. You hate yourself for enjoying this.

"Open your eyes," he commands, and you obey.

You are not in the ugly white, square room anymore. You are kneeling on a bed covered in soft, black sheets. You are not staring at that hard, black mask, but into the liquid-sexed eyes of a young man. He is sitting in a plush gray chair watching you, naked from the waist up. He is handsome in a wicked, arrogant sort of way. His hair is dark blond,
curling softly around his shoulders. He is all taught muscle and tanned skin. He is so handsome that you might have fucked him for free, for the pleasure of touching someone so beautiful.

He crosses the room in long strides, purposefully, and catches you in a crushing kiss. His tongue is in your mouth, invasive. Your fingers catch the drawstring of his loose black pants and push them down his hips. He kicks them away. You break this kiss and bend down to service him, as is expected, but he takes a fistful of your hair and pulls your mouth roughly back to his.

You are afraid because you want him so badly you are no longer thinking like a whore but like a woman. Mawbo warned you about men like this. She warned you about the pretty ones and the charming ones, although you don't consider him either. She warned you about the ones you would want, really want, because they would leave you broken afterward. Even
the sadists, who made you beg, never really broke you.

As the young man covers you with his body, pressing you back into the sheets, you suspect that he will.

Part III.

The young man's chest is warm and smooth when it brushes your nipples. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he eases you back. His hands hook around your thighs, spreading your legs and tilting your hips upwards. He wraps your legs high around his waist and pushes into you.

A half startled scream escapes from your throat. You are swollen and ready, but you didn't expect him so suddenly. Your sex is almost aching with need, and your hands scramble for purchase on his now sweaty shoulders as he pushes into you. He is rough and hard. He is
fucking you in the basest sense of the word, and you angle your hips so he can go deeper.

Normally you talk dirty to clients at this stage, help them along, lie and tell them how wonderful they are, how much you wanted this. Now that it's true you can't even form words.

The heels of your boots scrape along his spine and he hisses, thrusting harder. You will be bruised. You don't care. Roughly he palms one of your breasts, squeezing hard but deliciously so. You feel the beginnings of an orgasm overtake you.

You're both so slick with sweat that only your nails, buried in the skin of his shoulders, keep you from sliding apart. His wet hair is plastered against your cheek and you breathe him in, the smell so masculine and sweaty and raw.

His rhythm falters. He plants his hands on either side of your head and arches upward, the muscles in his neck twitching, his jaw clenched, his eyes closed. He is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

He pushes into you hard, three times. "Now," he says. "Now." It is an order.

You scream because you are coming and because the voice belongs to Vader.

You squeeze your eyes closed, riding out the shockwaves. It is so good it is near the sharp edge of pain.

When you come back to yourself, you realize you are cold. You are bent over, torso resting on an icy durasteel floor, body dripping with sweat. Your legs are tangled beneath you.

You are back in the white, cold chamber, trembling and wet. Your hair hangs in matted strands around your face.

You look up. He is still sitting in the same chair, still across the room. He has not changed position at all. But you know that he was the one inside you. The ache between your legs tells you it was real, not something he forced into your mind. You don't care how. You just want him to take you back to that place, to be the rough handsome boy again. To touch you again with all that power.

The room is thick with the smell of sex. Your legs are too wobbly to stand so you crawl over to him on your hands and knees. You couldn't care less if it's degrading. You stop between his legs, still shaking, dangerously near tears, and press your cheek against his
thigh. The material is cold. He places a hand on the top of your head.

The doors hiss open and two stormtroopers march in. You are still naked and wet and open, but you don't care. He could take you now, as he is, on the floor in front of those men, and you would probably thank him for it.

They drag you away from him. You're too weak to protest, but every inch they pull you farther away feels physically painful. Something is being stretched.

You are dragged down a hallway, still nude, but the other people on the ship look away as if they are afraid. You are left in a small room and provided with a real water shower and a hot meal. When your clothing is returned, it is clean.

You wash and eat and dress mechanically. You can still feel him. You could find him on this ship based on that strange sixth sense alone. If you thought, even for a fraction of an instant, that he would see you again you would go and find him.

They take you down to the planet and give you more credits than you know what to do with. You want to cry because the stretching feeling is worse and your connection to him is fading. You want to cry because you are horrified you could be made to feel this way. Your will has been snapped cleanly in two, like a dry twig.

They leave you where they found you, at Mawbo's. You are still shaky and Mawbo assumes it is because you have been raped. She swears violently at them, enraged at being helpless, and then spits in the sand at their feet. They don't even acknowledge her.

She takes you inside, murmuring soft things and touching your hair. She puts you to bed, but it is a long time before you sleep. Eventually the feeling is gone, the connection and the need, but for years after, the smell of leather can make you wet.

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