Fennec and the Slavers

Fennec awoke to the dull hum of a slaver’s ship already in hyperspace. A cold metal floor pressed against her bare skin. She wasn’t alone. Crammed into the cage with her were a handful of human women and a set of identical TWi'lek twins, all of them bare as the day of their births. Jaia was there beside her, honey-brown skin flushed, heavy breasts rising and falling with each breath. The once feared syndicate enforcer, now reduced to simple merchandise.

The cage was too low to stand, too cramped to stretch out. They had **** but to press against one another, bodies tangled in an unwitting embrace. Skin slid against skin, soft warmth inescapable, moans and breaths mingling in the tiny space. Fennec tried to will herself to focus, to plan her escape, but the constant press of soft flesh against her, the heat, the involuntary intimacy made it impossible to think of anything beyond the fact that she had been woven into a mesh of naked bodies.

Hours passed. Or maybe just minutes. Wrapped in writhing women, everything became a blur.

When the ship finally landed, slavers ordered them out. One by one, the women were **** to crawl through the waist-high exit, into the cold durasteel hall. Fennec had barely begun untangling herself when one of the Twi’lek sisters made a **** lunge toward the nearest slaver.

Her green feet didn't manage two steps before a bolt of pure agony ripped through every captive. It was impossible to scream, impossible to do anything but endure as their bodies convulsed. The pain lasted only seconds but felt like eternity. When it finally released them, they lay sprawled across the deck, panting, limbs left trembling and uncoordinated in the aftershocks.

Grinning, the Zabrak slaver loomed over them.

"Did I forget to mention?" he sneered. "While you ladies were taking your beauty naps, we implanted each of you with a slaving chip. We can track and punish you anywhere in the sector. So, no more heroics."

Fennec’s stomach turned. She could have torn these filthy, slack-jawed slavers apart with her bare hands, but all of her hard-earned skill and experience was completely useless if anyone in the sector could render her helpless with the push of a button.

"You’ll be on the auction block this afternoon. Let’s all hope you sell, because anyone left in the bargain bin might need a little… reconditioning." The Zabrak chuckled darkly, his fingers lingering near the control on his belt.. "But don’t worry, ladies. The finest **** auction in Nar Shaddaa is just a few blocks from here. The whole city watching you sluts parade your bare coochies down the street should be all the advertising you need. Now, line up at the ramp!"

Feminine whimpers and cries filled the space, but Fennec refused to let them see her falter. She had faced **** more times than she could count. She wasn’t about to let some sleazy back-alley slavers break her. She was no whimpering, powerless **** girl!

‘A few blocks in the buff? Nothing after what I’ve seen in this galaxy,’ she told herself.

She traveled down the ramp with open defiance. One arm crossed over her chest, the other shielding her groin. Her head was held high.

The ship must have been a regular at this port because a crowd of humans and aliens alike had already gathered at the foot of the cargo ramp, leering and jeering, their numbers swelling by the second. No matter how hard she tried to block them out, Fennec couldn’t ignore the relentless barrage of taunts and crude come-ons. She was helplessly exposed, paraded bare before a mob delighting in her humiliation. By the time they left the spaceport, her face burned from the insults, but she **** herself to stay composed. The auction house was only a few blocks ahead. She could endure that much.

But instead of taking the short, direct route, the slavers turned a corner, leading them on a slow, deliberate circuit through the seedy streets of the Smuggler’s Moon. Each twist and turn drew more onlookers, swelling the crowd and amplifying the ridicule. Faces sneered, fingers pointed, and judgment rained down from every side. By the second turn, Fennec found herself clutching her breasts and crotch in a futile attempt at modesty, shielding herself from the storm of mockery. Around her, the other captives wilted, sobbing and pleading:

"Get us out of here!"
"Please, just take us to the auction!"
"Lock us in our cells—anything but this!"

But Fennec gritted her teeth and endured, shuffling forward with nothing but her metaphorical tail and literal fingers between her legs. The hot, muggy air condensed against her bare skin, making her discomfort worse. To her horror, she felt the involuntary heat in her loins, her nipples stiffening against her will. The crowd noticed. They always noticed. The mockery sharpened, their jibes cut deeper, and her humiliation only deepened.

Block by block, the slavers marched them like a grotesque spectacle, ensuring they were seen from every angle, subjected to every crude remark. Step by step, the cracks in Fennec’s composure widened. She had endured battles, betrayals, and life-or-**** struggles, but this slow, public breaking was something else entirely.

By the time they neared the auction house, even the mighty mercenary was reduced to yet another whimpering, powerless **** girl begging her captors to be taken away and locked in a cell.

Finally, their captors relented and gave them permission to run the last twenty meters to the auction house entrance. The women bolted for the open side door, too frantic to care about covering themselves. Fennec ran with them, her pride abandoned on the streets of Nar Shaddaa, just another set of jiggling tits and ass sprinting to their enslavement.

Inside, the red-faced women found a room full of mirrors and beauty products. They were given a few short minutes to primp and paint themselves to catch a buyer’s eye before being herded into a wide hall to join other girls already there and made to kneel along one side with hands on heads. Even letting an elbow droop came with the painful reminder of what a slaving chip could inflict. There they sat, exposed to the scrutiny of perspective buyers and gawking spectators wandering in through the wide-open doors. Fennec stared at the unguarded entrance and daydreamed of running away or at least covering herself with her hands.

Fennec knelt, still catching her breath, her skin burning with shame. A realization crept up on her - this entire time not a single weapon threatened her nor chain held her, yet that **** chip ensured she had quickly and meekly complied with every order. To any outside observer it would seem as if Fennec was willing, almost happy, to be enslaved.

Wait. Was she?

"Nice definition at the withers. Healthy sheen to the hair."

The voice jolted Fennec from her daze. It belonged to a distinguished human in sumptuous robes, his silver-streaked hair meticulously styled, his bearing aristocratic. He and his rotund, red-skinned Jablogian companion circled her like appraisers at an auction.

The **** girls had been ordered to kneel, back arched with hands on their heads under threat of their slaving chips. Fennec had **** but to sit there, frozen, unable to move without permission, utterly exposed to their scrutiny. Stars, what she wouldn’t give for even a scrap of their lavish clothing.

Well-manicured fingers traced down her side. "Flank is firm, toned without excess bulk. Good curvature at the haunches."

The Jablogian reached out, prying back her lips with clawed fingers to inspect her teeth. His beady eyes squinted in appraisal. Somewhere within the folds of his jowls, he grunted, "Healthy."

The human’s hands swept upward, cupping her breasts with clinical detachment. He gave them an experimental squeeze. "Decent feel, but insufficient. A bio-modder will need to enhance these." He spoke as if discussing livestock, while his alien companion dutifully jotted notes on a datapad.

Fennec's jaw went slack. Even if she were free to break their noses, shock alone would have stopped her. She had endured med checks, combat assessments, even the occasional catcall before, but never something like this. Never so thoroughly, so publicly, as if she were an object rather than a person.

"Ex—excuse me!?" she sputtered at last. "What do you think you're doing?"

The Jablogian wrinkled his pointed nose. "Still has some fight in her, Riz."

"Apparently." The human’s lips curved into a wry smile as he finally acknowledged her. "What were you before this, little one?"

"I'm a mercenary," she snapped.

"Ex-mercenary. You'll be put to more agreeable pursuits now." He gave her breasts another firm squeeze to emphasize the point.

"You don’t understand," she stammered, cheeks burning. "I’m Fennec Shand. I'm an elite—"

A sharp pinch to her nipples silenced her.

"Hired muscle is common and disposable," the man explained. "A body like this is a rare asset. No reasonable businessman would risk something so valuable in a crude fight."

Fennec simultaneously boiled in outrage and blushed at the flattery at being described in such terms. The two halves of her mind vied to control her reaction leaving her momentarily stunned. By the time she found her voice, the pair had moved on.

"Lots 43 and 44," the Jablogian read from his datapad, "Twi'lek twins..."

Her mind spun as she tried to grasp her fate. They wouldn’t really sell a master assassin as a pleasure ****, would they? The chill on her bare skin and the aching sensitivity of her pinched nipples told her: not only would they, they were doing so right now.

Could she escape? Her finely tuned tactical mind ran through a dozen plans, each meticulously mapped out, step by step. Every scenario ended the same way: recapture, swift and merciless. Her shoulders sagged, but just a fraction, not enough to bring punishment.

She had long ago accepted that her career might end with a blaster bolt in the back and an unmarked grave. But she never imagined it ending reduced to a plaything leashed to a bedpost. The memory of that silver-haired fox and his hands ghosted through her mind, igniting a shameful flush in her cheeks.

She couldn't believe she was considering it, but… there were worse fates than being a rich man’s pet. And a pleasure palace had to be easier to escape from than a fortified dungeon or the belly of some spice mine. This was her best chance, she’d take it. So that meant one thing - Fennec Shand, master assassin, had to become Fennec Shand, the most desirable piece of flesh on the auction block.

When the time came, elite mercenary (ex-mercenary she reminded herself) strode the length of the hall, her ass swinging with a calculated sway, hips rolling with every step. She stopped now and then, arching her back just so, letting her audience drink her in. A sly wink here, a slow, teasing pout there. She blew kisses like a shameless trollop, every move designed to drive up her value. The crowd drank it all in. They gawked, murmured, coveted.

She continued her shameful strut up and down the hall until she was told to resume her position. But now, she was sat among the row of purchased slaves on the other side of the hall, patiently awaiting collection at her new owner's convenience.