Break bad. Steal a speeder and book it to Mos Eisley. You’ve got an itch to scratch.

Fuck this, your uncle’s got plenty of droids to keep him company. He doesn’t need your sexually frustrated self around gumming up the refresher drains with your seed. You hop into a nearby speeder, hoping its fuel cells have enough charge left to get you out of this dustbowl. Pushing the thrusters, you blast out of the homestead in a flurry of dust and speeder exhaust. So long farm life.

Your speeder bounces across the flatlands towards the pinkish glow of the nearest spaceport. Your veins pump with adrenaline and your cock pulses with excitement. In a week, you might find yourself rent boy on a pan-galactic pleasure yacht, dutifully swallowing the glands of countless aliens for free passage. Emboldened by endorphins, you free your cock from your pants, slowing working your left hand along the shaft as your right struggles to keep the speeder’s course true. Thankfully you’re a crack pilot.

You imagine yourself spit-roasted by Duros in low gravity as their prehensile dicks probe at virgin nerves, and your own jizm floats diamond-like in the air around you.

You imagine yourself bound naked to cold durasteel as Dathomiri witches flay you with vibro-sabers, your mind slowly becoming soupy from ****-induced subspace.

You imagine riding the orifices of yet undiscovered creatures, crashing into pleasure piles as sex fluids crest like waves over your twitching body.

Your hand’s pace intensifies as you approach climax, and your right hand falters slightly, sending the speeder dangerously close to collision with a dewback and a few moisture vaporators before regaining composure. The near-miss pulls you back a bit before your attention returns to your beet-red member, and your excitement ratchets up once again,

Breathing in the cool night air in excited gulps you fail to notice an imperial swoop sentry spooling up its engines.