Preparation

An hour later, Tiilwa's voice rang out:

• Honey, go to the boudoir. The maids will prepare you for your first client.

Ahsoka slowly got out of bed, her legs trembling beneath her. Tiilwa's voice still echoed in her mind, each word cutting invisible cuts. She followed the dark corridor, the cold walls reminding her of her new reality. Entering the boudoir, she saw several women, some human, others of different species, all dressed in light robes, their eyes lowered. The air was heavy with sweet scents and a silent tension. A Twi'lek approached her, her deft hands undoing the knots of her robe.

• Come with me, I'll wash you, pamper you, and put on your makeup. You'll never have been so beautiful, the Twi'lek murmured, leading her to a basin of scented water.

Ahsoka let herself go, her movements mechanical, her mind far from this oppressive reality. The warm water glided over her skin, carrying with it not the dirt, but a part of her soul. The Twi'lek's skillful fingers danced over her body, applying scented oils and colored pigments. Each touch was an intrusion, each caress a reminder of her enslavement, and yet she felt so comfortable with the feeling of no longer having to decide just to let herself go.

The Twi'lek applied makeup; even her nipples were affected. When Ahsoka looked at herself naked in the mirror, she didn't recognize herself.

Ahsoka stood in front of the mirror, her reflection almost foreign to her. The bright colors of the makeup contrasted with the pallor of her skin, and her eyes, once bright with defiance, now seemed dull, engulfed by a thick layer of mascara and sadness. The Twi'lek stepped back, a **** smile on her lips, and handed her a light robe, or rather, a collection of sparse, translucent fabrics that hid almost nothing of her body. Ahsoka slipped it on mechanically, each movement reminding her of Tiilwa's instructions, Garsa's threats.

Then the servant led her into the sanctuary's private pool. A Quarren was relaxing at the edge. Ahsoka shuddered when she saw the tentacles wriggling near her mouth.

• Master Trigeen, your maiden is served, she belongs to you. I hope you will be satisfied.