End of the Path

For the briefest instant, Vader's grip tightened around the hilt. It was just the hilt, a heavy, black and white cylinder of metal and ridged grips, a tool of murder dormant in his hand. The crimson light from the room's emergency strips glinted off its polished surface. He held it before her face, the unlit weapon an absurd, terrifying prop in this new scene of violation.

Its tip was angled toward her lips. "Open your mouth," Vader commanded. The vocoder left no room for interpretation, no space for refusal.

Leia's mind, a shattered ruin, could barely process the command. Her body, however, responded to the will of the Force that saturated the room. Her jaw, trembling, unlocked. Her lips, swollen and bruised from her own screams, parted. He pressed the hilt against her tongue. The metal was cold, alien. The ridges and buttons of the grip scraped against her palate. The taste was of oil, metal, and the faint, electric tang of the Force itself.

The sensation was a physical push, a compulsion that bypassed her shattered will and spoke directly to her nerves. Another long silence filled the chamber. Vader studied her with the unsettling patience of a predator that knew exhaustion would eventually accomplish what violence could not.

"You are young," he said. "Idealistic. You mistake stubbornness for strength." The words echoed through the sterile room.

Leia's lips closed around the cold metal. She began to suck, a clumsy, humiliating motion. Her saliva pooled, slicking the unlit weapon. The act was so base, so debasing, that a fresh wave of shame washed over her, hot and stinging. She was no longer a princess, a senator, a rebel leader. She was just a mouth, a hole to be used.

As if sensing her compliance, her complete capitulation, Vader began to move. He drove the hilt deeper, pushing past the resistance of her throat. Leia gagged, her body convulsing, a reflexive protest against the invasion. But the Force held her.

It pinned her, immobilizing her, turning her throat into a passive sheath for the weapon. He began to thrust, a slow, deliberate rhythm. The metal hilt, slick with her saliva, pistoned in and out of her mouth, each inward glide threatening to cut off her air, each retreat a brief, gasping respite.

Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, tracking paths through the grime on her cheeks. Her submission was total. There was no fight left, only the enduring of the moment. The rhythmic gluck-gluck-gluck of the throat-fucking was the only sound besides Vader's breathing, a sickening percussion to her degradation.

Vader could feel it. He could feel her wetness, her heat, her arousal blooming in the swamp of her terror. A low, mechanical chuckle vibrated through the hilt, a sound that she felt more than heard. Leia wondered if this was the moment. If the crimson blade would erupt from one end and burn through her before she could even draw another breath.

"So" the vocoder grated, "The little Princess enjoys dancing on the edge of the void. Show me," he commanded aloud, the words laced with dark amusement. "Show me how much you enjoy it."

Leia's hand trembled. Her mind was a fog, her will a ghost. But the compulsion was undeniable. Her fingersbfound their way down the slick, sweaty expanse of her stomach. They brushed through the coarse, trimmed hair of her mound and found the swollen, slippery folds of her sex.

The touch was electric. She was so sensitive, so raw, that the lightest pressure sent a jolt through her. She plunged two fingers inside herself, a mimicry of the rough invasion the droid had performed. Her cunt was a mess of fluids and raw nerve endings.

Leia was loose, stretched, and the feeling of her own fingers was both a violation and a strange, grounding comfort. She began to move them, in and out, her thumb circling her throbbing clit. At the same time, she leaned forward, her lips wrapping around the hilt once more.

The rhythm was hypnotic. The humiliation was a drug. The arousal was a fire consuming her from the inside out. She was a creature of pure, debased sensation, a princess who had found her true calling as a whore to the Dark Lord of the Sith. She was so lost in it, so consumed by the performance, that she didn't see the subtle shift in Vader's stance.

She took it deep, showing him, showing the silent observer in the corner of her own mind. She sucked it with a new fervor, a desperate, slutty enthusiasm, all while her fingers worked her own sopping wet hole. She imagined Vader igniting the lightsaber, the crimson blade erupting through the back of her head, vaporizing her brain and skull in an instant.

The hilt lowered a fraction. "You believe I cannot kill you," Vader said.

"I believe you would have done it already," she said, "if killing me accomplished what you wanted."

This time it stretched longer, long enough for Leia to realize she had struck closer to the truth than she intended. He needed her alive, not out of mercy, but of necessity. She saw it in the measured stillness that followed, in the fact that the weapon remained dormant in his hand.

Vader turned away from her. His cape swept across the floor as he paced once through the chamber. He stood with his back to her, staring at the blank durasteel wall. The Empire possessed prisons, chemicals, interrogators, analysts, and machines capable of extracting memories from the unwilling.

Yet none of them had broken the Princess of Alderaan. Every conventional approach had yielded the same result: silence wrapped in defiance. The lightsaber hilt disappeared beneath his cape. Threats of immediate execution had failed. Fear of death was not the key to Princess Leia Organa.

"This path has reached its end," he said.

Other avenues remained. The Emperor had entrusted him with bringing the Rebellion to its knees, not with satisfying his impatience. Somewhere within the countless tools available to the Empire lay another means of opening the prisoner's resolve. He intended to find it.