Down Time

DISCLAIMER: All characters and situations (sans those of author's creation) are the property of Lucasfilm Ltd. No monies whatsoever are being made by the author.


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 his crisp, severe manner. 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, genuine and fabricated, of that planet’s treasonous acts against His Majesty and his glorious Empire.


How the Emperor would respond, Tarkin was not entirely certain. Alderaan had been a thorn in Palpatine’s side for two decades. Its senatorial representatives, including its newest member Leia Organa, had continually 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 in his mind’s eye he saw the Emperor giggling and clapping his hands like an insipid child at the news of a world’s demise in his name. 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 the 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 confirmation 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 great room to the bedchamber. Before he even had a clear view, he was greeted with, “Hard day at the office, dear?”


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


Tarkin glowered at the pleasure slave, sprawled long and lanky on her back across his 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 joint, flicking the ashes onto the silk bedspread. “I don’t recall you sending for me either, Wilhuff.” She blew 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 scarlet hair over one eye and donning a hungry snarl. “What do you think I’m doing here? I want to fuck you.”


Tarkin narrowed his eyes. To this day, he still couldn’t decide if Lylla was absolutely fearless or the most reckless whore he had ever encountered: She more than earned her reputation as the most notorious pleasure slave on the Death Star. Whereas the other girls performed their duties with the expected loathing and humiliation prevalent amongst slaves of their caste, Lylla never showed an iota of weakness or shame. She seemed insatiable sexually, particularly when she had the chance to bed 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 was 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 erotic for him: She was a sadistic harpy who actually found arousal in the suffering of others. She amused him.


Nevertheless, he rubbed his eyes as he unfastened the placket 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?”

“I am not in the mood for your games, Lylla,” he warned dourly. “It has been a long day, and I am weary.”

“Yes, I know,” she said as she elongated herself in a cat-like stretch. “Torturing young princesses and blowing up their homeworlds can really take a lot out of a man, can’t it?”


He had reached the limits of his temper. He stalked over to the slave, grabbed a fistful of her copper-hued hair, snatched the joint out of her hand, and jerked her head up so she could see his displeasure. But rather then being frightened, Lylla met his glare with her black 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 twisted girl.”


Lylla’s smile spread even wider. “And that intrigues you, doesn’t it?” 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. 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 in my block. I loved it, Wilhuff. I just wanted to…help you celebrate.” She reached into the fly of his pants and deftly 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 cock, hard and flushed, and pulled Lylla’s head closer. With a lascivious leer, Lylla ran her tongue along his shaft’s underside, teasing the fleshy fold just under the head, before greedily taking it all into her mouth. Tarkin inhaled sharply as she engrossed herself in her unique talent. She circled her fingers around his cock, pumping 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 member. She could say the same of his age, as he possessed a virility that made men half his age seem unschooled and impotent. These qualities, combined with his absolute power on the Death Star, made Tarkin the one of the two men on board that Lylla actually respected. The other…well, she hadn’t attempted contact yet. Not yet, she wasn’t ready…


She was jolted from her thoughts by a harsh jerk of her head. “Don’t get distracted, my dear. Thinking is not one of your strong suits.”

She shot a sour look up at him before continuing her ministrations. It was only when Lylla began massaging the head of his cock with the back of her tongue that Tarkin pulled out of her mouth. His breathing accelerated, he lifted her by her hair into a kneeling position on the bed. “First you falter, then you work too eagerly.” he hissed into her face. He grasped her pert breast, pinching 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 arched back and growled. Tarkin reached around her and grabbed the cheek of her firm ass, 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 sex, already dripping with juice, thrusting and hooking them up with every pulse. Lylla dug her nails into the back of Tarkin’s neck as she rode his hand, whimpering her pleasure through gritted teeth, rubbing her breasts against his 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, crying out to the ceiling, unconcerned 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. He grabbed hers 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 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 rode him fervently. She squeezed herself around his cock, pulling and pulsating with her experienced 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. 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.


Panting, he released her. 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 bastard. Pity 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 added as his hand shot forth and grabber her neck and pulled her down. “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. Pulling out a drawer in his desk, he grabbed a few Imperial credits. “I have no need of ready money, but you seem to like it.” With that, he threw them across the floor. “You may leave now.”


Lylla’s eyes narrowed as she glared at him. Reluctantly, she stooped down and picked the credits up, one by one. When she was finished, 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. “Goodnight, GOD,” she said in a low hiss, then stomped out the door.


She stopped and leaned against the doors for a moment, fully aware of the lustful glances and stares of the passing troopers and officers, and not caring. The credits she gripped dug into the meat of her hand. She sucked her lip in and bit down. Most women would cry at such humiliation but, for Lylla, the tears had stopped flowing long ago.


Slinging her shredded clothing over her shoulder, she sauntered down the black corridor to her home, the harem block. She came around a corner to see the enormous black tower of leather, armor, and machinery that was the Lord Darth Vader at the other end.


Adrenaline instantly coursed through her. 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. She donned her famous leer, in spite of her earlier shame. The Dark Lord wasn’t the only one who could put on a mask.


He seemed about to pass her, but then 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 moment, meeting the other’s eyes. Then he spoke in that voice that always reminded her of the rumble of distant thunder. “What are you staring at, girl?”


She dropped her lids and scanned his armored body 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. Pushing herself off the wall, she purposely dropped the sheet slightly to just cover her breasts, and closed 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 her before slowly turning and gesturing to his entourage to follow. He didn’t see her stop and watch him go, and didn’t see her slump against the wall as she tried to still her racing heart.


And she didn’t know that, through the Force, he could hear every beat of it.

* * *