Down Payment Blues
This simple little story is dedicated to Tim Bisley, Voodoo Joe, Carnage, TRL, and the man, the myth, Sir Alan Jones. You all offered encouragement in one way or another. Most of all this is for Kate, who still lets me act and write like an idiot from time to time yet for some bizarre reason continues to love me. Thank you honey.
*
“”Everybody seems to wonder,
What it’s like down here,
I gotta get away from this running around,
Everybody knows this is nowhere…”" - Neil Young
The wind crept through the streets, howled like a wolf in pain and penetrated through to my very soul as it hit me. I felt my exposed fingers tremble around the neck and struggled to hold the shape I was making, felt my voice waver and crack as my teeth tried to clench themselves together. My coat was too thin and provided about as much protection against the chill as a light covering of sunscreen at the surface of the sun. I lowered my head and looked at my scuffed boots while I sang the last couple of lines into my chest, and as soon as I’d knocked out the final chord I slid the copper slide from my index finger and dropped it into the case at my feet before clamping my aching hands together and blowing air into them. That made little difference, and if I didn’t get inside soon I’d be facing frostbite.
I pulled my collar up around my neck even tighter and looked up, watched for a moment as two guys came out of the corner deli both holding sandwiches that steamed with heat and grease. My stomach growled, as much for the warmth as the nourishment, but my pockets barely had enough change for the L, let alone a meal, and the contents of the case near my feet didn’t fare much better. I squatted down and flicked my fingers through the nickels and dimes that were spread thinly over the protective cloth. A dirty and worn dollar bill also lay there, almost apologetic amid the change. I took a quick inventory, but even with the lone buck I was nowhere near what I wanted. When I’d left the house that morning I’d promised Mom that I’d put at least ten dollars in the tin that evening. Yet another promise that it appeared I was going to break.
I straightened up with a sigh as New York City continued to breathe around me. I’d come down to one of my favorite spots, near the corner of 49th and Sixth, and a place where I could usually make some good money, but the Apple wasn’t blessing me with fortune on this freezing Tuesday afternoon in November. I guess I could understand why. If I’d have been passing a lone busker trying to make his voice and guitar heard over the heartbeat of the City I probably wouldn’t have noticed either, and if I had it would have been to cold to even fish coins from my pocket, let alone stop and take in the blues he was singing.
Looking east towards Saint Patrick’s Cathedral I saw the late afternoon congregation leave the house of God, and let my eyes travel upwards towards the illuminated cross that shone brightly against a sky bruised with angry gray cloud and the promise of snow. Folklore stated the blues were steeped in misery and despair, two emotions that I could definitely relate to as I heard the clock tower strike a quarter-to-five. I wanted to pack up for the day, pocket my pick and slide and strike this one from the calendar, but I told myself to give it until five or until I collapsed with exposure, which ever came first.
An overweight man wearing a shiny suit passed me, his breath a fog before his red face as I retuned the E-string on my old Fender. The once-laquered maple had been exposed to all forms of weather in the two years since I’d bought her secondhand from Manny’s down on 42nd Street, and the wood now showed the signs of old age. That was all right though; it fit with the image that I often strived to portray but regularly failed, but even though she was beat-up the sound that came from within was bright and clear. Somedays she could even be heard over the rushhour traffic.
I ignored the biting cold steel on my fingertips and began to play, hitting the strings hard in my heavy style, feeling the vibration through my body and running my slide up the neck into the first stinging chord of Death Letter, a standard originally from the twenties which everyone had covered from time-to-time. It was a favorite of mine from the old blues, a song that bought back memories of my Father playing the original 45 by the great Mississippi singer Leadbelly while I sat on the floor near his feet and listened in awe to that powerful black voice rumbling from the stereo. We’d often listen late into the night, drinking hot chocolate while the music played and Dad told me stories of blues legend, of Mojo and Hellhounds and deals made at crossroads. Those nights had been the good times, before my Father had lost himself to whiskey and gambling, and before life had become complicated.
The city became my accompaniment as I closed my eyes and lost myself in the tune; cabs honked for attention, an ambulance panned past me in stereo from right to left, constant footsteps drummed out a rhythm, and the ever present wind continued to cut like a fresh razor. But just for a moment I’d transported myself far from Manhattan, way back in time and miles to the humid atmosphere of the South, to the Delta where the music I now played had been born among the slaves and chaingangs of the early century. As I sang of a woman who’d broken my heart I could almost feel the sun on neck, and as I raised my voice for the bridge I could virtually smell the cottonfields and the muddy waters of the Levee river. It felt good to escape. I reached the last verse and really started to work on the strings, the copper slide causing the guitar to wail a lament to lost love and make each note cry. I’d played Death Letter hundreds of times and knew it like the back of my hand, and on that cold afternoon I knew I was playing it well. As I struck the final minor chord and let the vibrato rattle and fade, it was a good way to end an otherwise miserable day.
After a moment I opened my eyes and let reality return, saw the cracks in the sidewalk and the guitar case still laying near my feet. Except now something had changed. Among the shrapnel of coins and the disintegrating note lay a fresh ten-dollar bill, the face of Washington in a frozen stare, and I felt my eyebrows raise with surprise. It was then that I noticed the small black boots a few feet infront of me, and I looked up to see who had been watching me play.
That afternoon had comprised of shades of gray; lighter in the sky and darker at street level. The cold had let in very little brightness. Maybe that’s why just for the briefest second my mind told me that an angel was standing before me, and it was only when I saw hair as black as a ravens wing that I actually focused away from the dazzling white that the truly beautiful young woman before me was wearing. A long coat trimmed with fur wrapped itself around her, the wind stirring the hem that was only a few inches above the boots. A white scarf curled around the neck of the coat and competed for attention with that mass of hair which framed a small, delicate face. Her pale skin was dotted with two patches of colour that rose on her cheeks and her lips were the shade of fresh blood. Large, dark eyes, deep and soulful, the kind of eyes that could easily hypnotize a man, blinked back at me. As I stared she brushed the hair from her face with tiny, gloved wrapped fingers and gave me a wry smile that revealed teeth as ice-clean as the rest of her.
‘Nice version,’ she said in a soft voice barely audible above the sounds of the street.
The wind chose that moment to hit hard, assaulting my eyes. I blinked a couple of times and fully expected the beauty before me to be gone when my vision cleared. But she still stood looking at me, pulling the scarf tightly around herself. My hand gripped the neck of the Fender tightly, the slide still sheathed on my little finger.
‘Thankyou,’ I finally replied, and nodded down to the ten-spot in the case. ‘From you?’
She shook her head, eyes not leaving mine. ‘You look like you could use it. And like I said, that was a nice version. I’ve played that tune a few times myself.’
‘Yeah, I know. I saw you do it last year,’ I replied. A sharp blast of horn rang out, loud enough to break windows, but neither of us looked round. Neither did many of the New Yorkers passing us and rushing towards their destinations. Noise was just another aspect of the Apple you accepted, even ignored. ‘Great show,’ I said quickly, and then felt foolish for sounding like a complete fanboy.
She smiled again, and looked almost shy. ‘Oh. You know who I am then?’
Despite the cold I felt heat rising in my cheeks, and I concentrated on pulling the slide from my finger when I spoke. ‘Sure. You guys have taken the music I love and made it fashionable all over again,’ I said, and when I looked up she was still smiling. ‘Thanks to you, I sometimes make a few more bucks.’
‘We just play.’
I already sounded like a fan, which of course I was. Why not confirm the fact? ‘You don’t just play. Both you and Jack have got lightning running through you.’
Now it was her turn to look away, and I was surprised that I’d seemingly embarrassed her. She must have had thousands of compliments paid to her in the last three or so years. ‘My Brother maybe,’ she answered. ‘I just keep time.’
Now we both looked directly at each other, and our expressions spoke. Her deeply dark and beautiful eyes gave away the fact that I understood enough to know how things were in her family, and the recognition in my own bloodshot whites said that I also knew that deceit and folklore were cornerstones of Blues myths. It was one of the reasons that the music had endured for the last eighty years, and one of the reasons why Jack and Meg White were as successful as they were. Aside from great music, The White Stripes were built on legend.
‘What are you doing in the city?’ I said, unbuttoning the strap from the body of the guitar and pulling the instrument away from me. Thanks to Meg, I’d made the cash I needed, and the cold had now overtaken any further desire to play.
‘We’ve got a show tonight,’ she replied, her voice as soft as before. ‘Do you know the Bowery Ballroom?’
I nodded. ‘I know it well. Down on Delancy Street.’ It was a place I’d been to maybe a dozen times in the last couple of years. A roughly thousand capacity venue that used to be a grand-style art-deco palace in the thirties but was now a stopping point for every decent rock band that breezed into town. ‘The first time I went there was to see Jeff Buckley. And I saw The Kills just a couple of weeks ago,’ I said, crouching down and scooping the money from the case before laying the Fender carefully across the worn fur.
‘You seem to know music,’ said Meg, and I looked up as I snapped the buckles home on the case. She was almost in silhouette against the angry sky, and her wind-tossed hair wrapped darkness over her. For a second I wondered if I was really having this conversation. Was I really standing in the middle of Manhattan having a conversation with a beautiful woman who just happened to be one half of roughly the most influential band on the planet right now? It was a miracle these days for me to be talking to a girl, let alone one who was a combination of beauty and fame.
‘Take a look around,’ I said. ‘You see me joining the rest of these suits hailing cabs for the Upper East Side or wearing casual Armani and stepping into any of these chrome and neon bars? I’m lucky if I’ve got change for the subway.’ I paused, stopping myself before I gave her my down-on-his-luck story. ‘You could say music is pretty much all I’ve got.’
Meg returned my smile, but I saw a touch of sadness, maybe even recognition, creep into her face. ‘Living the old blues dream?’
‘Just living. Some days it’s harder than others. But this afternoon just got that little better, thanks to you.’ The traffic roared as we stood looking at each other a moment longer, and it seemed as if the remaining daylight was now slipping even faster, transforming the colours of the city into black and white monochrome. The cathedral started it’s five o’clock chime.
Meg spoke quickly. ‘Look, why don’t you use that money and come down to the Bowery tonight? Have a drink and see the show.’ She stopped and let me see that almost apologetic expression again. ‘Well, you know, that’s if you want to. I can put your name on the guest list.’
At that moment if a camera team had jumped out of the bushes to gauge my reaction and then tell me I’d been set up on one of those dumb reality shows I wouldn’t have been surprised. I almost looked over my shoulder to see if it was actually going to happen. The best offer I usually got in the day was the chance of my Mom’s home cooking, and these days even that happened less and less.
‘Are you serious?’ I said
‘Yes, very. We play at nine.’ She paused and slid the sleeve of her coat back to reveal a pale, delicate wrist topped with a thin silver watch. ‘Look, I have to get going. Are you interested or not?’
I thought for the merest moment, and it wasn’t a difficult decision to make. Up until five minutes ago the prospects that I had for the rest of the day was a difficult journey home followed by my regular evening with books or tinkering around with half-written songs that I maybe hoped would be my ticket out of the rut my life was in. After that I had my usual date with a beer and Letterman. I didn’t need to contemplate for long.
I nodded. ‘Yes, I’d love to come. Thankyou.’
She smiled again, those deep eyes almost glowing in the early evening light, and I felt a rush of heat to my body inspite of the cutting cold. We stood facing each other for a second before I broke our silence and told Meg who I was and thanked her once more, and she promised to add my name to the doorlist and told me where I should go when I arrived. Then she turned from me, and the wind caught her coat and whipped it around her like a shroud, her hair across her face like a veil. She stretched her arm forward for a cab, and it was then that I moved forward, stood next to her and whistled shrilly through two fingers. Moments later one of the old-styled checker cabs, now a rarity downtown, emerged from the sea of traffic and slid into the curb. I took hold of the cold handle and held the door open for Meg.
‘Thankyou Jimmy,’ she almost whispered, nearly inaudible over the street noise. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Before I could reply she was on the backseat and the door had closed, and I stood there with guitar case in hand and watched, almost mesmerized, as the checker eased onto 49th and headed for the black heart of Manhattan. Darkness was approaching fast and the traffic was now using lights, and I watched the deep red rears of the taxi glow like hot coals before they were finally swallowed, then grinned for the first time that day, pulled my coat into my neck and started to walk.
**********
The L was as crowded as always, and I received the usual harsh looks and heard the mutters as I pushed the guitar case through the doors and tried to find a space to stand. Forget sitting. If you can find a more densely populated place on the face of the Earth than a New York Elevated railway in the rush-hour then I’d like to see it. I wedged myself against the doors and watched as Manhattan moved into the distance as we rattled across the engineering expanse of the Brooklyn Bridge, and I looked with envy when we reached the farside of the East River and the wealthy brownstones of The Heights, with it’s mix of professionals and self-made businessmen. Someday, maybe if I dreamed long enough and offered my prayers above then this neighborhood would be my stop. But for now, and the for the foreseeable future, the L dragged me away from it all.
My stop was in Red Hook, an area steeped in the history of the docking industry in which my Father had worked until his early death. The borough homed a collection of Italians and Latinos and Blacks, plus Whites such as myself, and the housing projects and desolation meant that it was an area not common with casual sightseeing. Guiliani had worked hard on improving the Outer Boroughs during his years in office, and progress was being made, but The Hook was still a place where you watched over your shoulder after dark, even as a resident.
As I left the station I stopped at a corner florist and bought a couple of dollars worth of blooms, and hid the waxed paper wrapping inside my jacket as I hurried home. The stairs upto my third floor apartment were dim as two of the sodium lights had failed and were as yet unreplaced, and the wood creaked on every step as I approached by door. The apartment was mostly in shadow when I entered, and I could hear the low sounds from the TV and smell floor polish and the odour of freshly baked bread cooling in the kitchen. I called softly to my Mother but there was no reply, so I laid my guitar down in the hallway and moved into the kitchen, found a brace of small loaves on a wire rack and carved myself a couple of thick slices. In the living room my Mom was asleep in the chair, a position I often found her in these days, and I kissed her lightly on the forehead before roughly arranging the flowers in a vase on the dresser which I hoped she would see when she awoke.
My room had been closed up all day and was stuffy, and I cracked a window and let the fresh November chill in, then lit a couple of candles in addition to the lamp. The room took on a gentle ambiance that softly lit the walls and illuminated the many music posters and framed prints that I had. Immediately my eyes went to an image that I had advertising a White Stripes show. The show was from a couple of years ago in their hometown of Detroit, and as I took my boots off I thought about my meeting with Meg that afternoon, about how sensuous she’d looked in the harsh winter light, and how I still couldn’t really believe that I was going to their gig that evening. I loaded a tape in the deck of my stereo, a self-made compilation of Stevie Ray’s greatest, and kept the volume low as I lay on my bed and let some warmth return to my chilled body. I listened to the entirety of the one side and then stripped, took a shower and shaved, and dressed in black jeans, a white T-shirt and a half-decent jacket that I’d picked up last month for a few bucks from a thrift store. I’d heard that retro was the new chic on the streets of Manhattan, but for me it was more a case of all I could afford, not keeping up with the fashions. Still, if my dressed down style was the current trend, who was I to argue. For a few months perhaps I’d actually fit in for once.
In the living room my Mother was still asleep, her posture unchanged. I looked at her for a moment with both love and a deep fear, and then fished through the money in my pocket and dropped the ten dollars that Meg had given me into the copper tin on the table. I took Moms hand briefly and gave it a gentle squeeze, listened to her shallow breathing, a noise as soft and gentle as the wings of a hummingbird, and then left quickly before my conscience forced me to stop in that dark room with the shadow of an old lady who was rapidly approaching the finale of her life.
**********
I rode the subway back over the river and got off in the Lower East Side at Lafyette Street, then made the short walk to a bar that I played in on Sunday nights, mostly to a small crowd of lost tourists and elderly drunks who watched their reflections all night in the depths of a shot glass. My buddy Joe was tending bar, and I negotiated with him for a sandwich and a beer which he agreed to deduct from my meagre weekend fee. New Yorkers, all heart. We shared small talk but in truth my mind was on the forthcoming gig, and when I checked my watch and saw it was nearing eight I touched knuckles with Joe and left him for the streets once more.
Yes, that was it. She did understand. Vader looked into her very essence, and found all his rage, lust, despair, and emptiness reflected back at him. But, she was not truly his. Nothing was truly his.
He slowly lowered her until her feet touched the floor, and unhooked her arms from his neck. Before Lylla had the chance to look at the rest of his body, he had already slipped back into the dark. How does he move that fast? she thought, perturbed. She was about to vent her frustration again when she heard him state grimly, “The Emperor knows of you.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “And?”
“Now is not the time to play the innocent, Lylla.”
Her smirk melted away. “Is that bad?”
“It is…unfortunate.” A pause. “He wants to meet you.”
“What?” she gasped. “The Emperor?”
“It is not the honor you may perceive it to be. He wants to study you, twist you, find ways to use you against me.”
“That will never happen—”
“Don’t be too certain,” he replied dourly.
She furrowed her brow in confusion. “But I thought…you were his heir, his second—”
“I am…” he began, but then stopped. And sighed. “He is my Master. I must obey him in all things.”
Lylla tried to determine what he was saying, and slit her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“For being Force-blind, you are impressively observant, Lylla.”
She laughed, softly yet bitterly. “When you have been with as many men as I have, you learn to read them like holonovels.” Her expression became serious. “Tell me.”
She heard him move in the darkness, as though in a thoughtful pace. “He wants to watch us… couple.”
“What?” she grunted.
“He wants to watch us, to be certain that you are ‘worthy’ of my favor.” He turned back toward Lylla standing in the dim circle of light.
She stood still and silent with her mouth agape and her expression blank. But then, quite suddenly, she began to laugh. A soft giggle at first, it soon escalated to hearty, almost maniacal guffaws that pealed off every surface of the chamber.
Vader ire immediately surfaced. “You find this amusing?”
“I…I find it…” she gasped between cackles, “Very, very funny!” This sent her into another round of inappropriate gleeful laughter.
He took an angry step toward her. “I command you to tell me what you find so humorous!”
Lylla straightened herself up, breathing deeply to regain her control. “Ah, men! Whether you are slave or king, you all want the same thing! You are such simple creatures.”
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“The Emperor is nothing more than a horny old stone-goat is what I mean!” she exclaimed. Another fit threatened to surface, but she managed to force it down. “He doesn’t care that I’m worthy of you—he wants a show! Why, the old, wrinkled voyeur! Who knew he had it in him?”
Reckless, Vader mused, even as he felt his groin tighten. Fearless. “I would watch your words carefully, Sa’thraxxx.”
Lylla was beginning to understand that Vader used her Sith name whenever he became annoyed with her. She stopped her mirth. “Is he watching us now?”
“No, not as of yet. I have shielded him for the moment.”
She turned over her shoulder. “Can he perform?”
Vader furrowed his brow, as the question had never occurred to him before. “I doubt it.” She began to laugh again, but softly this time, and her glittering eyes invited him to share in the joke. His lip curled into a smile, and a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. With her reaction, the humiliation he had felt began to wane. “Then this does not alarm you?”
“Trust me,” she said, running a slim hand through her unruly mane, “this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve performed for unseen eyes.” She suddenly became quiet. She turned away and took a few steps, her head bent as if in deep thought. Finally, she turned over her shoulder. “Well then,” she purred, as that sultry smile once again graced her lips, “shall we give him what he wants?” Her hands floated to her shoulders, where she pinched the ties holding her dress and pulled them loose. “Shall we show him what he’ll NEVER have?”
The form-fitting dress slid languorously down her body to pool around her ankles. She slid her fingers through her tresses and pulled them up, allowing Vader’s eyes to rake over her nakedness. Standing in the dim light, her body seemed to have been carved from ivory. It bathed her, shadowing the cut of her slim muscles, illuminating the rise of her shoulders and firm buttocks, down the subtle curve of her long, slender legs.
And then the memories came, the forbidden memories, the soft voice, and the face that still haunted him took form behind his eyes. Soft, somewhat round, with cheeks kissed by the bright Naboo sun, long chocolate ringlets that spilled over her shoulders, and large, brown eyes shot red with weeping…
Vader threw up a cerebral wall, casting the image out and opened his eyes to the present, to the face slyly turned over her shoulder. Long, angular, with cheekbones sharp; silver serpentine eyes slit with desire, a wild mane of red and black hair that snaked about her head and shoulders, and a wide, ravenous mouth that looked as though it could devour a man’s very soul.
Anakin, I don’t even know you anymore… But Lylla knew him.
You are going down a path I cannot follow… Lylla would not only follow him, she would bolt down that path and gorge upon everything the Dark Side could offer her.
In every possible way, they were as different as night and day, light and dark. Padme, his angel bride. Lylla, his demon whore.
“Turn around,” he demanded in a soft growl.
“Mmm mmm mmm,” she hummed, shaking her head and wagging her finger over her shoulder. “You come here, into the light. If you want to see me, I should see you as well.” She smirked. “It’s only fair.”
Was she giving HIM orders? Vader felt his ire well up and his patience ebb, until the realization occurred to him. Oh, this was banter, wasn’t it? A skilled seductress, she was playing with him, teasing him. Yes, men and women did this, he recalled. Force, it has been so long…so very long…
Her smile waned a bit, and her glittering eyes became soft and understanding. “I won’t be afraid. I swear upon my life, lover, I won’t be afraid. Please…let me see you.”
She spoke the truth. He could feel it. Hesitantly, he stepped into the circle of diffused light. And held his breath within his damaged lungs.
Lylla gasped, and her mouth fell open, but Vader sensed that this reaction was not that of horror, but of astonishment. She turned to fully face him, and took him in. He was pale, yes, hairless and significantly scarred, but that didn’t hide the steel cuts of his abdomen and chest. An intricate set of bio-cybernetic controls and tubing was embedded over his heart, a mechanism that she surmised to be his pacemaker, and the small tube of a self-contained free-breather was inserted into his nostrils. Her eyes wandered over his appendages. They were fashioned to mimic the shape and function of human limbs with ligaments and joints—but instead of bone and muscle, they were a complex system of plasteel and cable woven over metal rods. However, they were in perfect proportion to his organic parts, and the lines of his body flowed freely over flesh to machine. And she smiled when she glanced at his hardness, and for just a moment she thought, despite the murky light, she saw him flush.
They stood like that, across from each other, for what seemed like a quiet eternity. Vader pulled himself to his fullest, imposing height. “So,” he finally rasped, “do you still think of me as a man?”
The play of light and shadow slid across Lylla’s breasts and belly as she slowly approached him. She stopped just a hair’s breath from him, and he could feel the heat of her body, and smell the musk of her arousal. “No,” she whispered, snaring his eyes within hers. “I think you better than a mere man. I think you are a GOD.” And in one fluid motion, she dropped to her knees, grasped his member with both hands, and swallowed him whole.
Vader sucked a ragged breath into his lungs as he threw back his head. In all of his experiences in both of his lives, no one had ever performed this for him. Her mouth, warm and wet, sent bursts of sensation throughout his organic body. Her tongue played his shaft like an instrument, sliding along the underside, swirling around the head. Her hands were gentle yet firm as she established a slow pulse of sucking and sensual manipulation. His hand came down to caress her head, but he ensnared his metal fingers into her hair after she performed a particularly arousing oral maneuver.
But then…he was there. The Emperor, slinking into the undercurrents of his mind, and he could literally feel that insipid, yellowed grin ooze through his consciousness. Lylla immediately stopped when she felt him suddenly soften, and looked up. “He’s here, isn’t he?” she asked softly.
Such perception. Vader slid his hand from her hair to cup her face. “Yes.”
She nuzzled the hand with her cheek, still gazing up at him. “Remember,” she purred, “what he’ll NEVER have.” She again took him into her mouth, looking up into his eyes as she moved her lips up and down.
But quite unexpectedly, Vader seized her by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. He then gripped her wrists and thrust them up over her head. Lylla’s discarded dress suddenly sailed through the air at them. She heard the fabric tear as the sleeves spun themselves around her arms. The skirt shot to the skylight, shredding into streamers that tied themselves to the steel struts. Lylla found herself bound and hanging, her toes barely touching the floor. Aghast, she threw a shocked look at her lord. And for the first time, she saw his face stretch into a full smile.
“No, Lylla,” he growled quietly, his eyes glowing that fiery scarlet-yellow, his breath hot on her lips. “You are not in control this time. This time, I am the Master.”
Her breaths came quick and deep as her arousal quickened. “Yes, Vader.”
He viciously gripped her hair and jerked her head back. “Your familiarity is inappropriate, Sa’thraxxx. Yes, whom?”
“Yes, my lord!” she cried.
He smiled again. “Better.” So, she found pleasure playing the victim as well as the torturer. He had surmised so much. One’s average inquisitor often did.
He scraped his teeth against her throat, and reveled in her gasp. Releasing her hair, his mouth moved down over her shoulders, to her breasts, licking and nipping her silken flesh as though he were a man starving. He pinned her to his chest and deeply inhaled her fragrance, even as his metal digits dug into her flesh. But the pain hardly dissuaded Lylla—indeed, the hurt only fed her growing need. She arched into him as he feasted on her body, and threw her head back when he grazed down below her navel. Without hesitation or care, Vader flung Lylla’s legs over his shoulders, clamped his metal hands around her thighs, and brutally thrust his tongue into her mound
Lylla shrieked and ground her sex into his mouth. His tongue drummed a primal beat against her clit, sending shock waves of pleasure through her. Her hips responded in kind, keeping the rhythm of his tongue and, before she knew it, a fluent string of Huttese profanity poured from her in guttural grunts.
Vader was momentarily distracted. Multi-lingual, he mused as he devoured her. Impressive.
Yes, quite, came the withered, sickly voice inside his head. And such abandon, my boy.
Vader’s gut wrenched. For just the briefest, blissful moment, he had forgotten that Sidious was watching—and experiencing—everything he was. Rage began to roil within him, and he stopped.
Lylla’s moaning stopped as well and, panting furiously, she looked down. “Why… what—”
Vader rose to his feet, and tangled his hand into her hair once again, bringing her lips to his. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, intent on making her taste her own juices, and bit her lower lip. She groaned into his mouth, still writhing against him. He broke off the kiss, sliding a finger between the lips of her soaking slit. “Do you wish me to bring you release, Lylla?”
The coolness of his digit inside her warm slickness sent shivers through her. “Oh, yes,” she gasped.
He thrust another finger into her. “Beg me.”
“Please,” she cried, her hips pumping furiously. “Gods, please, my lord—”
Just as quickly as he had thrust them in her, Vader pulled his fingers out and stepped away. “In time.” Lylla hung taut in her bonds, whimpering, her eyes beseeching and baffled as she panted uncontrollably. He began to circle her. “You will do something for me first. Then I will bring you the release, the pleasure you so crave.”
“Anything,” she moaned, still undulating in her bonds. “I’ll do anything for you, my lord.”
He came back around her, and placed his hands on either side of her face, pulling her forward. He touched her forehead with his and murmured, “Show me.”
“Wh…what?” she stammered, confused.
“Open yourself to me,” he intoned softly, brushing her lips ever so lightly with his own, “as you did on the Death Star. Let me in, and show me your life. ALL of it.”
He felt her lip quiver, and she actually tried to break from his grip. “No.”
He tightened his hold, refusing to release her. “You deny me?” he asked, more incredulous than angry.
“Yes…no…I mean…” She began to tremble, and Vader saw the beginning of tears in her eyes. “Won’t HE see as well?”
“Yes. It doesn’t matter, Sa’thraxxx. I’m sure he’s already delved into your past. He knows who and what you are.”
“Then why?”
“Because,” he whispered, his golden eyes boring into her silver, “I wish it.”
“Please…my lord…don’t make me do this.”
He ran a thumb under her eye, and caught a tear. “Why not?”
“I’m… ashamed.” She cast her eyes down. “I don’t want you to see…”
Vader was almost taken aback. He knew Lylla was a volatile, unpredictable woman, but he never guessed she could host such…vulnerability. “We have far more in common than you may believe,” he soothed. “Look at me.” She did, and saw that his eyes had turned from fierce yellow back into the crystalline blue she had remembered. Even as he gripped her hair, he gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Do you not trust me?”
Lylla sighed, and nuzzled his hand. “With my life.”
“Then…” He leaned in, and threaded his fingers into her hair, holding her still in his grasp. “Show me.”
After a moment’s uncertainly, Lylla conceded. She closed her eyes, and cleared her mind. She felt him slip into her thoughts, a mist that wrapped itself around her soul. Within her mind, she looked up to the sky, and again she saw the black heavens streak brilliant with flashes of scarlet lightning. But the dark angels did not come to her this time, but merely settled in the distance, upon ebon peaks afar…
She looked down…to experience her first day as a pleasure slave all over again.
As did Vader…
**”Sold!”
Fellenet was a dank, wet world. The merciless rain pounded the deck of the rickety platform, soaking the long scarlet hair of the nude woman-child standing in the center. About a score of males, human and non alike, gathered about the stage. The girl shivered, crossing her arms over her bare body, as the groans and curses of those who lost the auction spread throughout the crowd. Judging from the tender buds of her breasts and the faint scarlet hairs that grew from her young womanhood, Vader presumed that she was no more than twelve standard years.
The voices of the auctioneer of the lucky winner rose above the pounding rain…
“She had better be what you promise. Untouched.”
“I would cheat such an upstanding peer of the territory such as you, Magistrate? Besides, I have the word of her father that she remains pure, despite her brothers’ attempts…”
The men laughed a bit. Vader looked to the young Lylla again. He was unable to decipher her tears from the rain on her face, although he could clearly feel the terror and despair roil through her soul…
The scene suddenly shifted, to a dark corridor leading to large chamber doors. From beyond the doors came the cries and sobs of the young, scarlet-haired girl as her innocence was ripped from her…**
“Did you understand what he was doing to you?”
“Yes, I understood.”
“It hurt?”
“Yes.”
His metal hand gently cupped her breast. “You were afraid?”
“At first. But then…I began to realize…that I had…some power…”
**Another shift, four years later. The girl was truly no longer a girl. Still young, yes, but taller, her breasts now filling her scant bra, her hips graced by a beaded dance belt, her buttocks fuller and rounder as she was on her knees, finishing her task on the house guard.
A grunt, a thrust, a wipe across her lips, and the sound of pants fasteners. “You have half a standard hour, Lylla.”
She rose to her feet. “Damn you, Grees. After everything I’ve done for you—”
“You know what’ll happen to me, to both of us, if the Magistrate finds out? I’m being generous, Lylla.” He opened the door.
Vader watched her enter the office, and take a seat behind a desk, and press a button on the holocomputer. A wizened old female face appeared in the air, wearing a soft, warm smile. “Welcome, youngling, to your sixth lesson in reading Basic…”**
“You taught yourself to read,” he observed.
“I taught myself many things,” she replied seriously.
“And you continued your education, in the same manner, aboard the Death Star.”
She gasped. “You knew about that?”
“I had been watching you for some time, Lylla. As you had been watching me. But we digress…”
**They were in a smoky, dank room. Around a table sat several beings, sabaac cards and credits scattered on the table top, with only two men holding cards—her Master, and an extremely well dressed man. Jewels donned his fingers and throat, and his clothes were made from very expensive fabric.**
“Malifino,” she spat.
“A new Master?” Vader inquired, his lips brushing against her neck as he stood behind her.
“The scum on the swamp of the universe,” she clarified, her voice seething with hatred. She leaned back against him. “As you can guess, the Magistrate lost.”
“And you were the prize.” For a split second, he touched the Emperor’s psychic tendril, and smiled inwardly. Sidious was engrossed in the vision, which was exactly what Vader had hoped for. With the Emperor distracted, he felt free enough to run his fingers through Lylla’s hair as his other hand caressed her belly. But he felt her stiffen, and a wave of apprehension broke over her essence. “What is it?”
Her breathing quickened. “I don’t want you to see this.”
The metal hand settled around her throat, but it did not close. “I will see it. You will refuse me nothing, Sa’thraxxx.” The hand slid from her throat and joined the other in fondling her breasts. “Nothing.” Lylla sighed—whether from pleasure or defeat, even she wasn’t entirely certain. Supported by her restraints, she fell back against the Dark Lord and closed her eyes, reluctantly allowing him again to watch her past…
**Her new master’s home was somewhat more opulent than her last. Her clothing, while still titillating, was sewn of finer fabric and custom made, fitting her better than the cheap dancing costumes her former master furnished. There were more females in his harem, numbering in the double digits. And the food was much better. Lylla’s youth, her height, her scarlet hair and her overall brazen sexuality quickly made her a favorite of towering Baron Malifino, a regional shipping tycoon.
That was not a good thing, for Malifino was a sexual sadist. The only way he could get aroused was to inflict as much physical pain and terror onto his bed-wench as she could take without dying or passing out. And Lylla had, unfortunately, a high pain tolerance that coincided with her insubordinate ways.
Over the next few years, Lylla tolerated more beatings than any of the other girls. If she fought Malifino back, it only aroused him more. If she didn’t fight him, he beat her senseless and bloody, sometimes before he raped her, sometimes after. Trip after trip to the infirmary, session after session with the surgeon and the bone-knitters and the bacta tanks. Every time they healed her up, she would return just days later with cracked ribs or a broken jaw or a fractured shoulder…**
Lylla began to shake against Vader. Vader, in turn, could hear the Emperor’s maniacal cackling off in the distance of the Dark Side. He knew he couldn’t shield Lylla’s memories from Sidious, but he could strengthen her, soothe her, bring her through it.
“Did you escape him?” he breathed into her ear.
She hesitated before answering breathlessly, “In a matter of speaking.”
“Show me.”
**She was in another room, a library of sorts. Again, she had performed sexually for one of Malifino’s aides for access to the library key. Her fingers flurried across the lit board of the holoputer, until the information she wanted appeared before her. Vader read the words on the projected screen:
Poisons Undetected In the Body After Death.
The images came fast and furious, as did Lylla’s execution of her plan. So many favors to perform, timing to get just perfect, the exhausting study of mixtures and formulas beyond her comprehension, but she persevered.
And then the night came, when she came to his chambers, as she had many times before. A blow to her cheek came immediately upon entry, but she took it without screaming or fear. Things were different this time, for the Baron hadn’t noticed the syringe tucked in Lylla’s hand, the syringe she had stolen during her last trip to the infirmary…
She was quick, and lethal. Her arm swung, and the needle plunged directly into Malifino’s throat. Vader watched her snarl of sheer vengeance as she pushed the plunger down, watching the green ooze drain from the tube, watching Malifino’s dumbfounded face as it turned pasty, then blue. He watched the brute fall to his knees, reaching for Lylla, pleading with her. And he watched Lylla answer his pleas with a kick to his face and a string of low Correllian curses to not only him, but to his entire, worthless line. She beat him with her fist, screaming, crying, exacting her revenge on him, venting her rage to the universe itself…**
Vader dropped his hands, and came around to face her. Lylla hung from her restraints, her head bowed, her breaths fast and hoarse. He touched her chin, and gently lifted her eyes to face him. Her expression was blank, exhausted, but her eyes glittered with tears. “You killed your Master,” he murmured.
Her lip quivered. “I had to.”
“Were you not afraid?”
“No,” she answered firmly. “I knew that I could be put to death, but I didn’t care. I could die happy knowing he was roasting in the dimensional hells. And I wouldn’t die by his miserable hand.”
“You…killed your Master…” Vader repeated absently, as though arrested by the thought, and Lylla saw the yellow spark just briefly in his eyes. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. “What happened after that?”
She sighed. “The constabulary arrived. Everyone knew I had killed him, but…no one turned me in. Even the estate doctor claimed it a heart attack.” She looked into his eyes. “No one mourned him.” A pause. “Do you want to see more? Most of it is very much the same.”
“Just tell me.”
“I was traded from owner to owner, mostly to pay for gambling debts. Some were kind, some were not, but all were easily manipulated, and I was always the favorite.” The sultry smiled returned briefly. “My last master was indicted for tax evasion. The Empire seized the entire harem as partial payment. I serviced several ships in the fleet until I was transferred to the Death Star.” They remained silent for a moment before Lylla stated abruptly, “I want to show you one more thing.”
Vader nodded, and leaned into her again, cupping her face. She closed her eyes again and let him in…
**Her jaw dropped as she gawked at the monstrous sphere that rose within the viewport. Although it was named ‘Death Star’, the whole construction seemed alive somehow. It rotated slowly, majestically. Ships of all sizes and makes whirred around the thing, and the light of thousands of viewports blinked from the surface.
She smiled proudly. This was it, the end of her journey, the ticket out of this life. The last five years had brought at least some prosperity; Imperial officers had proven not only to be more dignified and less brutal, but generous to boot. And now, she would be a part of the Empire’s greatest triumph, servicing its finest, best-paid personnel. She clutched the purse of credits she had hidden in her bra. It was only a matter of time before she could buy herself out.
Final approach, and landing. Lylla swallowed hard—she was not well versed in space travel, and it always made her a bit motion sick. The whimpers and tense, squeaky whispers of the other pleasure slaves aboard were not helping. She turned and barked, “Keep it down, you pathetic little brats! You don’t know how lucky you are!” The girls immediately fell silent, as the Amazonian redhead already intimidated them.
She led the other girls down the ramp, and reveled in the immediate impact she had on the officers in the bay. She purposely dropped her cowl over her shoulders, giving the officers a glimpse of creamy cleavage bound in her tight-fitting corset. A petty officer began a long drone regarding procedures and limits and what was expected of the girls and how fortunate they were and blah, blah blah. Lylla sighed, her attention drifting to the sheer enormity of the bay, the soaring ceilings, the stories of catwalks that lined the bulkhead…until her eyes held, and her breath caught in her throat.
She watched him tread heavily along the catwalk, flanked by several officers who scrambled to keep up. A black tower of leather and flowing robes, the hangar lights glinted off his polished helm. His ebon cape caught the breeze he created with his stride and sheer size. The mask that covered his face was that of a gargoyle, yet his walk was that of a sovereign. His arms looked as though they could split a Rancor’s skull against the span of his broad chest, his legs as though they could crush whole planets under his boot. And she could hear his…breathing. It echoed through the bay, a low, hypnotic sound that at once startled her and yet soothed her.
Every officer and stormtrooper stopped what he was doing for the briefest of moments. Some dared to glance at the soaring behemoth, some didn’t. But there was no mistaking the force of awe and fear that broke over the assembly, and she heard a name barely whispered amongst them…
Darth Vader.
Lylla stood frozen in her tracks, just as the other girls were being led to the brothel quarters, unable to take her eyes off him. Something stirred deep within her, a feeling she had always forced with every man she had been with. She grew wet, warm, and excitement flushed her entire being. She knew somehow, in some way, this specter, this deadly, magnificent manifestation of machine and man would be a part of her destiny.
A demon prince.
A dark angel.
And then he looked at her. It seemed as though he sensed someone was not averting her eyes. He stopped at the catwalk’s rail and peered down at her. The officers around continued to brief him on various aspects of progress and construction, but he paid them no heed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak and, of course, she couldn’t see his expression. He merely…looked at her.
“You!”
Lylla snapped out of the dark stranger’s spell on her. She turned to see the petty officer march toward her. Forcefully, he grabbed her arm and began to drag her. “Keep up, and stop gawking! Do you know what Lord Vader could do to you?! Who do you think you are…?” **
The vision subsided, and the dimness of the chamber seeped back. Lylla opened her eyes, and gazed into Vader’s. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you,” she murmured simply.
And suddenly, the Emperor was gone.
Vader furrowed his brow as he sought out his Master’s presence. But Sidious was nowhere to be found within the Force. Had he seen enough? A sick feeling began in his gut, but he quickly dismissed it. Palpatine would have to wait.
He lifted his hand. The ripped dress unwound itself from the struts above, and unwrapped from Lylla’s wrists. Gently, he caught her and cradled her into his arms, lifting her as though she was no more than a child. She nuzzled her cheek into the crook of his neck. The metal arms encircling felt cool against her skin, despite the oppressive humidity in the room.
He carried her a few steps into the darkness, and she felt him lower her down. The smooth feel of silk greeted her flesh, and she contentedly sank into the softness of what was obviously his bed.
She was quiet for a time. “Is the Emperor still watching?”
“No,” Vader answered.
“Then it worked?”
Vader stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I know you didn’t want him to watch us,” she replied simply. “You used my memories to distract him.”
Her insight was uncanny. Again, he scanned her for any Force ability. He found none. He patted the sweat off her body with the sheet as he silently contemplated everything he had just seen.
She had killed her master. Without fear, without remorse. A mere pleasure slave. She did it to save her own life, but he had felt her rush of savage delight break through him when she plunged the poison into the degenerate’s neck. She had taught herself to read, and studied different languages. And, despite her ambition and sheer will, she remained patient, she bided her time, secretly scorning those gluttonous fools who thought her lower than themselves, while using her charms to convince them otherwise, hence ensuring her own survival. Born into despair, betrayed by fate for many years, until this moment as she lay in his bed.
He searched the Force, trying to find an answer, a sign. He had been so alone for so many years. Perhaps after all these years, a new mate had finally presented herself. The perfect woman, a fitting partner… not for Anakin Skywalker, but for Darth Vader. He wouldn’t find a queen. He would create one.
“You are an extraordinary woman, Lylla.”
She gaped a bit. “You…mean that?”
“Yes. Your cunning and intelligence are most impressive, as is your will to survive. You are truly worthy of my favor.”
“But,” she breathed, flustered by the Dark Lord’s compliments, “I was a slave—”
“I was born a slave,” he confessed.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I was born on Tatooine, to a slave woman. Named Skywalker.” He waited. “You do not recognize the name?”
“No. Should I?”
She was becoming more ideal with each passing moment. He smiled slightly, feeling a bit relieved. “No.”
Lylla raised herself onto her elbow. “But…I thought you were royalty. A prince, perhaps—”
“I am a Lord of the Sith.” His tone indicated he had nothing more to say on the subject.
Lylla gaped at him, utterly aghast. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, she bolted upright and pulled him to her, crushing her lips into his and brazenly wrapping her hand around his shaft. She stroked him, firmly and smoothly as Vader responded with a primal grunt, roughly pinned her against him, taking her tongue, her lips. Lylla broke the kiss just long enough to pant, “Take me, now, please, I’m begging you…” against his lips.
He forcibly pushed her onto her back and, gripping her under her thighs, jerked her to him. Lylla gripped him again, pulling him to her, guiding him into her. He hooked one mechanical arm under her knee and pulled her leg up and high as he drove into her in one violent thrust. Lylla cried out, raising her hips off the bed to pull him in. Regaining some control, Vader began to pump her in a slow, heavy rhythm. He cast himself into the Force to soothe his raging desire, to ease the pain that racked his body. No, he would not allow himself relief before her. He would make her scream his name over and over. He would make her his, and his alone.
She snapped her hips to meet every thrust. Vader grabbed her wrists and pushed them back on either side of her head, holding her helpless. Lylla tossed her head back and forth, bucking passionately beneath him, mouth agape, her hair wild and spread about her like dark flames. She keened furiously as she felt his thickness fill her, stroke her, bringing her closer and closer…
So warm, so wet, so eager and taut. Unable to feel her flesh with his hands, he bent his head and savagely took a breast into his mouth, lathing her nipple with his tongue, nipping with his teeth, before moving to the other. A sharp gasp shocked her body when she suddenly felt him inside her mind, her soul, like she did on the Death Star…
The sinister angels had returned, caressing her flesh with fingers of fire, kisses of frost. When she opened her eyes, she could see them around her Lord, undulating over him, silhouetted by the streaks of black lighting lancing through a blood red sky. Her shrieks of passion soon changed to cries of pain, of despair as his essence filled her, just as his cock relentlessly filled her sex.
“Show me,” she cried, ensnared in the fire of his burning eyes, “Show me, as I did you. Let me in, let me take your pain…”
Vader released one of her wrists and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her up and touching her forehead to his, never breaking his brutal rhythm. She gasped again as his life, all of it, blazed across her consciousness.
**Tatooine, yellow and dry. A flying reptilian alien barking orders. The warm, placid face of a woman, years lining her face, but love sparkling in her eyes. A little boy, blonde, beautiful, but sad. Coruscant. Years of training, of verbal jibes, of unmet expectations, of loneliness. A little green toad of a being speaking in broken Basic. A distinguished man, chiding her Lord over and over about behavior and honor and decorum. And then
Her.
Petite. Beautiful. Royalty. He loved her, how he loved her. A wave of elation as her voice declared
I’m pregnant.
But then dreams, horrible dreams. Death. Her death.
Desperation, rage, fear. Gods she could almost taste it, it was so palpable.
A bargain. A terrible bargain. Promises of life, immortality, of eternal bliss. Never to be. Never…
Her voice again, over and over
I don’t even know you anymore…you’re breaking my heart…you are going down a path I cannot follow…
And then Lylla saw him …strong in body, furious in spirit…she watched him unleash his rage, his fear, his pride
You’ve betrayed me! You don’t love me! I shall be more powerful than any Jedi has ever been! And you’ll pay! You’ll pay for your deceit!
She grasped her throat, no air, choking…his fist curling tight…killing her
A battle. Swords of light clashing. Raging lava and fire all around. The red-haired man again, now his enemy
Anakin, don’t do it…I have the high ground
He jumped, weapon raised. A slice of light through the air, a scream
He fell. He saw his own limbs lying in all directions
And then the fire, consuming him, eating him alive
And the man walking awa
Pain. Force, the pain. An operating room, medical droids, limbs of metal and plasteel
And the pain, ever present, never ending—**
Lylla shrieked as the orgasm ripped through her like a rampant inferno. Rage, treachery, betrayal screamed through her. Throwing her legs around him, she bucked violently off the mattress beneath him, unable to control her body or her soul. She raked her talon-like nails down his bare chest. Blood seeped from the gashes.
Vader quickened his pace, thrusting faster and harder, even as he felt his weakened heart might burst. But the maelstrom inside him had taken hold. Lylla wrapped her arms around his neck, and grunted in his ear, “That’s it, my lord…take me…take me…”
She felt the roar rip through his loins even before she heard it. Vader threw back his head and growled at the ceiling through clenched teeth. Wave after wave of black flames roiled through him as he came, his seed exploding into her, she responding by thrusting him in even further until their loins touched.
Vader held himself above her, desperately panting for breath. Lylla still held him by the neck, and slowly pulled him down, sliding her hands to cradle his head. He brushed her neck with his lips, and she nuzzled her cheek against him.
“I want to bear your son,” she finally said.
She felt him tense, and she suddenly feared she had upset him. But before her apprehension could turn to panic, he raised his himself and stated, “You cannot.”
“I know,” she murmured. “I am barren.”
“As am I.”
She gazed at him. Touched his cheek. “What happened to your child, my lord?”
A pause. “He died with her.”
——————
She ran her hands over the gown, luxuriating in the play of skin against silk. But when she looked in the mirror, her satisfied grin faded. Stepping toward the mirror, she ran a hand through her hair, which had grown another twenty centimeters since her arrival. And her eyes glittered so pale, they were almost white.
She turned to Vader. “Should I be concerned?”
The low thunder of a chuckle came from the mask. “That all depends. How do you feel?”
The grin returned. “Invincible.”
“Then it is of no concern,” he answered simply.
Lylla laughed, and spun around, sending the voluptuous skirt spinning about her.
Vader rose from his seat, and paced the breadth of the huge antechamber, the only furnished room in the entire palace. But since this room was not equipped with a hyperbaric system, he had changed back into his armor. He came up behind Lylla, sliding his gloved hands over her shoulders, joining her hands in their play. “It is time to be serious. You will spend 4 hours a day with your protocol droid. You will cover such lessons as etiquette, Imperial history, political structure, and the names and titles of Core aristocracy. Understand?”
“Sounds awful,” she huffed.
“Perhaps,” he replied, “but you will have to be versed in these things if you are to be my mistress.”
She started a bit, and leered at him in the mirror. “Is that what I am?”
Vader nodded once. “Expect an invitation to the Coronation Day celebration.”
Lylla turned, and placed her palms against his chest. Leaning into him, she looked up into his eyescreens. “I will make you proud, I swear it.”
Vader paused before rumbling, “I expect nothing less.”
There was no ground, no gravity at all as Lylla stepped through the enormous palace doors onto the speeder dock. She felt as if she floated, unfettered by anything within this physical realm. She stopped for a moment, and looked into the Coruscant sky. There, she didn’t see just black, but every unimaginable shade of it, and all the colors of the spectrum within it.
She touched the brand between her breasts. Still warm. Her mind still reeled with the images she had seen. One in particular invaded her thoughts, and her lip curled over her teeth.
“Foolish little bitch,” she snarled at the image of Padme.
But then she laughed. This simpleton may have destroyed him. But she would rebuild him.
“Well, well, well…what have we here?”
The human girl in the sumptuous bed stirred at the sound of the rich baritone across the room. Propping herself on her elbow, she smiled dreamily. “Something interesting?”
“One might just say that.” He ran his long fingers through his topknot as he perused the image on the holoscope.
The girl slid nude out from the covers, and slinked across the sumptuous animal furs thrown about the marble floors. The air still hung with the scent of exotic incense mixed with the musk of sex and pheromones, and she breathed it deeply, stretching her arms over her head. She lowered them to wrap around his muscled green-skinned torso, sliding her hands into his silk bottoms. “Xizor, come back to bed…”
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