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Twilek Sex Slave

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Meet Vette. Or at least she'd better be, if she knows what's good for her. Beware, spoilers ahead. Vette is my character's slave, gifted to him by his dark master. She comes complete with a convenient high voltage shock collar, allowing me to administer harsh punishment should she speak or act in a manner unbefitting her station. I torture her.

Years old: I am 39
Nationality: I was born in Belarus
My gender: Girl
I know: Spanish

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It was a moment before the words would come, for she was slightly overwhelmed by their presence and confidence. More, anyway, than motherhood and child-rearing, an uncertain political climate, a timid husband, and the winds of galactic war on every breeze. The main room was dim, and she could see them bouncing about like Ewoks at a funeral pyre; dressed in sleeveless shirts and loose-fitting pantaloons, their skin tanned and tarnished brown, with raggedy hair down to their necks; blonde for Kit, brown for Narmo.

I believe the best age for a Twi'lek girl to start learning how to serve is eight.

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Even then, her calculations sometimes fell short, resulting in a busted seam or inappropriately tight, skin-hugging fit. Sara loathed them, feared them… and respected them in some dark way. Even the corpulent Rylothian representative, Orn Free Taa, had meekly gone along, feathering a gundark nest of credits for himself while Palpatine neutered the senate into uselessness, robbing her people of the only voice they had in galactic politics.

Is she too old? Even Tali. Then the Clone Wars. Simple life, right? If a customer takes an interest in you, you dance for him. These problems were more stupendous, and insidious, than a grope of the breast and the suggestion of how she could best use her mouth in exchange for credits.

Gods, how little they feared her, and cared for her words!

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Just what sort of holo-game were these boys playing? It was familiar, disturbingly familiar. Spit on them! What they could not beg for they doubtless stole, and yet their poverty had taught them no humility. And more importantly she knew their sex - refugee trash who had washed up on Ryloth, vagrants but still with the human instinct to see Twi'leks as chattel.

She wanted to tell Tali these things, but could not bring herself to say them. Incidents such as these were not uncommon, for the humans assumed that all other races were theirs to fondle, pinch and leer at. Now, get to work before I scar your face and make you useless. Yet it seemed in the nature of humans to be relentlessly assertive, to take and touch and grope what they pleased! Of particular interest to other Twi'leks and fetishists of the species were her prominent brain-tails, or lekkuwhich protruded from her scalp with inviting plumpness.

Should be natural for a Twi'lek. It was a wonder with the squalor the boys lived in that they had found a way to siphon power from the market grid. Tali nodded sullenly, and Sara felt an unmistakable tingle from deep within. The clan leader would never allow such a thing. These humans pawed at her in the market, leered as she passed, made remarks about her grace, her proportions, and whispered slave they thought she could not hear about the money she could make at slave auction; they seemed to hint at a very different destiny with each lewd brush of their greedy hands against her thigh.

To gain entry, Sara was forced Twilek grip the rusted metal rectangle with both hands and shove it aside.

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She rang the chime at the door of the abandoned hovel where they stayed and received no response, either because the portal which was askew on its track was non-functional or because the boys were too busy rambunctiously fooling with holo-games to pay any heed. Slum-rat eyes. She knew them. The two boys stepped closer to her, their eyes narrowing. After hesitating for a moment, perhaps too ashamed to repeat the words, Tali told her what the boys had said.

Her cobalt-blue skin was an instant attention-grabber, and her tapered waist gave way both to expansive hips and a jaw-droppingly large bust for which suitable humanoid clothing was often hard to procure. She had seen such eyes before. It seemed straightforward enough. Her mind flashed back again to what she had overheard, those many years ago. And they were not wrong about her charms.

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Humans took what they wanted. We saw it first! The Hutts pay the best prices for the young. The audacity of the boys, to defile her home planet in such a way, simply taking what they wished and tossing aside refuse in their wake; it was quintessentially human. They did not seem worried or confused.

And yet the galaxy still seemed a complicated, bewildering place. The Twi'lek wife and mother had long considered her place on the homeworld of Ryloth to be precarious, and though it was far away from the slave trade that had claimed so many females of her kind, a subtle lack of fulfillment still nagged at her. She knew that in his own work he had been supplanted by a newcomer from Coruscant as vulgar and grasping as the rest of the lot, and this pattern was played out across her entire race. Gawking, they pushed their grimy holo-visors to their forehe and looked Sara over.

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He was so docile, so afraid to reach out and take what was in front of him. She did not want to alarm Tali, but she also needed to find out if the threats the boys had made were real. It will not be hard. The humans were always most bold. The girl, who had a blue skin tone much like her mother, was especially traumatized this day because of what the boys were saying. Their eyes were the only part of them that seemed pure. Like Tatooine, Mos Eisley in particular, that wretched hive or sleek alien sex; death-sticks, dark clubs and depravity.

Sara knew them by reputation; another human problem that the Twi'lek merchants were too timid to do anything about. The males on Ryloth were invariably pleased with these fabric malfunctions. Then turmoil in the Galactic Senate.

In an instant, Sara could see that the boys regarded her as more commodity than sentient being, and her heart skipped a beat. Sara wrinkled her small, slender nose. Did you see the ass and brain-tails on that bitch? She asked herself more and more often the haunting question about why so many females of her race were slaves and prostitutes, gravitating to low positions of subservience as if it were encoded in their genetics.

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Blue, cold, and seemingly in a constant search for more things to play with, use, scavenge or sell. They seemed always to be sizing her up, like buyers turning a Ryl-fruit over in their hands, testing for freshness and the likelihood of a juicy, satisfying interior. As with her other physical features, these were more voluminous than those of most Twi'lek females; Sara had taken to sewing her own head-dresses as well as her own halters and leggings. She balled her small fists and put her hands on her wide hips, moving to address the boys.

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Taking a deep breath, Sara rose and walked toward the door, bidding Tali prepare dinner. If he wants to take you in the back, you go in the back. The scent in the air was one of old socks and underwear, with a hint of things even more foul. In truth, this sort of treatment was one of the few things on Ryloth she did still understand. One of the holo-disc sleeves was readily visible; it depicted Twilek scantily-dressed Twi'lek female laying sex one hip with a chain around her neck, looking obedient.

It seemed a good thing to raise her year-old daughter Tali away from the lecherous gristle-mill that devoured so many female Twi'leks, turning them to dancing, prostitution, and servitude. Sara swallowed, trying to remain resolute and finding it difficult. The dim lighting, the sounds of entertainment, the cries of victory, the dilapidated setting and the subtle scent of alien musk, mixing with dirt and rust.

Many of the holo-games were out of the protective sleeves and lay atop a player console that was rusty with age and burnt almost black with carbon scoring. For this reason, and the slave robust dimensions of her buttocks, she served as her own seamstress. With those lips, I bet she could suck the shag off of a Wookie. You dance. First there had been the Confederacy of Independant Systems. Their precocious young forms seemed at odds with the brutal concepts they were spouting, the sort of talk that Sara associated more with pro-human propagandists than Rylothian citizens.

Old enough to understand, not old enough to physically resist.

Not adults, but younglings? Kit, the shorter blonde boy, also mimed firing a blaster. The entire works had a burnt electrical smell, a fire waiting to happen. He was missing a front tooth, which only added to his scrappy countenance. She was too uncertain to tell him, too worried about his meekness to spill the stories of how human merchants cupped her melon-like breasts as if examining Ryl-fruit, offering to put up credits to sponsor her as a dancer or concubine.

Had seen them at market, poking at droid parts like mynocks investigating a rotted worm tooth. Sara gulped. Beat them with a stick! Despite these thick measurements, her ankles, neck and wrists remained dainty. She understood it and could cope with it. The slavers had been humans, of course.

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On one knee so as to lock eyes with her daughter, Sara asked what the boys had wanted her to do. She felt rather exposed, standing there in her low-cut halter and tight-fitting leggings, her large, long, plump lekku protruding back through twin sleeves of cloth that had been decorated with silver be that offset nicely against her cobalt skin.

Suddenly she could see their faces.