Moff Tarkin

Despite his fatigue and the apprehension that gnawed at the back of his skull, Grand Moff Tarkin strode down the black corridors of the **** Star in the same crisp goose-stepping manner as always. The first test of the battle station’s destructive power had been a success, the Tarkin Doctrine now in full swing. The Emperor had been notified of Alderaan’s destruction, along with a detailed briefing outlining all the evidence, actual and fabricated, of that planet’s treasonous acts against His Majesty and his glorious Empire.

How the Emperor would truly respond, Tarkin was not entirely certain. Alderaan had been a thorn in Palpatine’s side for two decades as its senatorial representatives, including its newest Leia Organa, had constantly stirred resentment and argument within the increasingly flaccid Galactic Senate. But to destroy the world outright... this was unprecedented, to say the least. Nonetheless, a mean smile twisted Tarkin’s lips. He and Vader had agreed many times in their private conversations that Palpatine was teetering on the verge of madness, and Tarkin saw a glimpse in his mind’s eye of the Emperor giggling and clapping his hands like an insipid child at the news of a world’s demise in his name. But then again, he may not…no matter. Like this pitiful Rebellion, Palpatine’s reign existed on borrowed time…

As they came upon his quarter doors, Tarkin turned to his entourage of flanking officers. “Notify me when the Emperor has returned our transmission. Until then, I do not want to be disturbed.” Without acknowledging the officers’ affirmative nods, Tarkin strode through he door.

He went immediately to his desk, bringing up his private communications on his viewer: A message from his wife—delete: A short briefing from Daala, his mistress and protégé, from the Maw Installation. This one he read with mild interest, and was about to send his affirmation when he finally noticed the sweet odor of burning glimmer-spice wafting through the air…

He shut the viewer down and stepped around the corner leading from his private great room to the bedchamber. Before he even had a clear view, he was greeted by a voice that sardonically crooned, “Hard day at the office, dear?”

If black silk dipped in Saarlac venom had a sound, it would sound like Lylla.

Tarkin glowered at the long and lanky pleasure **** sprawled on her back across his huge bed like a krayt dragon in heat. He folded his arms. “I don’t recall sending for you, Lylla.”

Lylla giggled through her drag on the glimmer-spice joint, mindlessly flicking the ashes onto the silk bedspread. “I don’t recall you sending for me either, Wilhuff,” she purred as she exhaled the narcotic smoke out her nose.

Tarkin allowed her use of his first name slide. “Then what are you doing here?”

She rolled over to her stomach, tossing her bobbed crimson hair seductively over one eye and curling her lip into a hungry snarl. “What do you think I’m doing here? I want to fuck you.”

Tarkin narrowed his eyes as his own lip snarled upward. To this day, he still couldn’t decide if Lylla was absolutely fearless or the most reckless whore he had ever encountered.

Lylla was the most notorious pleasure **** on the **** Star. Whereas the other girls performed their duties with the expected loathing and shame prevalent amongst slaves of their caste, Lylla actually seemed to revel in her life’s lot. She was virtually insatiable sexually with an appetite for powerful men. And for a ****, she was strikingly attractive, which was also the reason she was a favorite amongst the high-ranking officers. Tall and slender with legs that seemed to stop at her ears, Lylla was always in high demand and the best compensated **** on board.

Since she was a **** and not affiliated whatsoever with the Imperial Courtesan caste, Tarkin would generally have nothing to do with such trash. But Lylla possessed, even embraced a quality the other pleasure slaves did not, a quality Tarkin found extremely pleasing, even erotic for him: She was a sadistic harpy who actually found arousal in the suffering of others. She amused Tarkin.

Nevertheless, he rubbed his eyes as he unfastened the lapel of his stiff uniform. “Need I remind you, Lylla, that you have no right to enter my quarters without exclusive permission? I could have you severely punished for this.”

Lylla raised an eyebrow as she purred, “Oh Wilhuff, would you? Please?”

He almost chuckled at her response. Instead, he replied, “I am not in the mood for your games, Lylla. It has been a long day, and I am weary.”

“Yes, I know,” she said as she elongated herself even more in a cat-like stretch on the bed. “Torturing young princesses and blowing up their homeworlds can really take a lot out of you.”

He had reached the short end of his temper with that comment. He stalked over to the **** and grabbed a fistful of her copper-hued hair while snatching the joint out of her hand. He jerked her head up so she could see his displeasure. But rather then being frightened, Lylla met his glare with her serpentine eyes and emitted a low, throaty, intoxicated laugh.

Tarkin felt his loins twinge. Still holding her hair, he lowered his lids and sighed, “You are a cruel bitch, Lylla.”

Lylla’s smile spread even wider. “You love my cruelty, Tarkin.” The smile faded and her voice lowered even more as her eyes slit and she lightly fondled her own nipple through her sheer black body sheath. “I AM your cruelty.”

She released her breast and slid her hand up inside Tarkin’s thigh, her thumb delicately playing with the increasing bulge emerging there. “I saw the explosion through the viewport near my quarters. I loved it, Wilhuff. I just wanted to tell you that. I just wanted to…help you celebrate.” She expertly reached into the fly of his pants and undid the fasteners. Her eyes became large with fake innocence.