Strip

You struggle through the binders to undress. Despite the danger and uncertainty of your present moment, you feel a shot of endorphins as you shuck layers at the rough command of this beef trooper. Your pert virgin ass prickles as it meets the night air.

This is the strangest imperial run-in you’ve ever had and despite the fear and pain you’re in you can’t help but notice blood rush to your crotch as you deposit your sandblasted coverings on the desert floor. The trooper doesn’t seem to notice your half-erect cock and instead indicates with his stunner for you to turn on the spot. You shiver but comply, exposing your ass to your present captor. A wave of fear almost overtakes you. You push back an animal urge to jump from your speeder and flee but any chance of escape has long since passed. You can feel the stun baton grazing inches from your exposed flesh, as the trooper outlines your body with his tool. It seems to hover in the small of your back as if considering plunging deeper into the crevice of your ass. You shiver at the insinuation. Being deflowered by this trooper’s baton isn’t quite what you had in mind when you cut from home.

Suddenly, his hands are on you, kneading at your cheeks. You feel his gloved index working its way down towards the space between your legs, searching for your hole. His rough palm flattens over your back as hard fingers rub against your opening. He shoves at you hard with the sharp end of his finger. Your back arches in response to his prods, and he pulls you closer till you can feel the busted shins of his armor and tangle of belt gadgets rattle against your bare thighs. His cloying at your hole feels all too much and you pull at your restraints and buck at the air, letting out just the whisp of a moan. He digs at you again, deeper this time and finding no purchase, he makes several approving sounds from underneath his helmet. "You’re tight farmboi, that’ll do nicely". You hear the crackle of a comlink activating: “This is tk421 to Garrison, I’ve got an abandoned speeder out near the dune sea. Request pickup.” He continues to explore you while waiting for a response, giving you a healthy squeeze before raking fingers over the face of your butt. “This is garrison, copy tk421, request granted,” the comlink crackles.

You feel a pit form in your stomach. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s way off the imperial script. You’re boned. this trooper’s got a very particular plan for you and whatever it is, it’s probably a lot more nefarious than a light beating and a day in a holding cell. Without the speeder here there will be absolutely no way to track where you end up. You’ve never known the imperials to be **** traders, but you’ve heard some worrying stories about farm kids wandering too far past the markers and ending up personal fuckbois to The Hutts. Oh well, guess you can kiss all your chances at the academy goodbye.