Disclaimer - People and places discovered by George Lucas and Lucasfilm belong to them. The story and concept is mine.
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This is for Red, who encourages me unmercifully!
She enters the throng of people, pushes through the press of bodies towards the space at the end. Here there are commonplace things – a table, some chairs, her datapad.
Opening the datapad, putting in a new cube, bending over her task, she feels… she feels…
A presence.
His presence again.
So strong, so dark, so powerful.
Then nothing, but a space, where someone is, where someone
waits.
Distracted, her mindless fingers perform the task required of them, flying over keys. She stops, the presence is back, she looks up.
To see Palpatine with his Aide behind him. She talks to Palpatine, entertains him gracefully, answers his questions. The Aide does not take his eyes off her face but she does not look at his.
She has seen Palpatine’s Aide before, he is a diplomat, rumoured to be a dealer in arms and a go-between in matters of technology. Although humanoid, his skin is patterned, red and black, there is a crown of vestigial horns on his head, and his visage is stern, uncompromising. But she has noted his fine mouth.
He is an elegant being, cultured and civilised, fastidious and elegant in everything she has seen him do, although that is but little. She has sometimes wondered whether his colour is red on black or black on red. Suddenly she knows, it is black on red.
They leave and a shiver runs up her spine. It is not fear, it is something else.
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It is another day. It is late and she walks to the gallery that she may observe the planet turning slowly into the night against a backdrop of the galaxy and its’ countless stars. This is one of her favourite places, a much-needed respite from the toil of the day in the service of her mistress.
The gallery is occupied however, and she turns to leave.
“Share it with me” says the dark cloaked figure standing close to the long tall window. He has a soft husky voice like rocks walking over velvet. Her spine tingles.
He turns, looks unsmiling at her, and their eyes meet.
Such golden eyes, the pupils dilated, ringed with fire. She senses the dark in him. His eyes are black pools. Of desire? For her? Does a maelstrom of power lurk beneath those eyes, in his heart?
For a tiny brief instant of time she sees the maelstrom behind him, a raging whirlpool of anger, rage, destruction and chaos. It rears up behind him, threatens to swallow everything around them. But this is his dominion, his kingdom and inheritance. He is in front of it, between her and it. He holds it back, keeps it from her.
Danger shrieks around the gallery, hammers at the transparisteel windows. A frisson runs up and down her spine again, chills her down to the marrow of her bones. And does she feel a gentle caress on her cheek, the whisper of his breath on her neck?
Perhaps.
So the woman walks to him and the danger, stays a while, admires the view, speaks but little.
He takes his leave of her and makes a small but courtly bow close to her, smiling just a little now as he looks at her face. As he inclines his head his nostrils flare, there is a sharp intake of breath and the smile deepens more. He leaves, his black pleated cloak swirling behind him.
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The woman walks with her mistress to yet another conference. They chat companionably of working matters, discuss things of import, affairs of state. There is a lift to the conference floor, only moderately crowded, they enter.
Then a large crowd comes, pushes in. The women move back to make space but they are thrust forcefully back by the press of the crowd and one of the women trips, falls back.
But strong hands support her and she is held safely then released. Turning, she thanks him. Thanks Palpatine’s Aide. The Aide smiles a little, murmurs some inconsequential thing, and she turns back.
Just before they exit the lift at their chosen floor, she feels the ghost of a kiss on the back of her neck, the brush of a hand on her hair. A shiver of delight runs through her and she smiles. He has not moved, nor does he, but she feels the kiss again.
Her lips part a little as she closes her eyes, and her breathing quickens. If it is him – oh he is so beautiful! She smells a faint musk, a faint male musk under-laid with a subtle hint of a spice. It makes her heart race.
Is this what it is like, desire? She is twenty six years old and has experienced nothing. Is it such a gentle thing then?
She can feel him smile a little and finds she is aware of his thoughts.
‘Oh no my Lady. Desire is not gentle at all!’
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Palpatine and her mistress are discussing what gains the Nemoidians might make during these negotiations. They are sitting opposite each other, as are the two Aides, hands picking at their keyboards when notes are to be made.
He is younger than she thought, late twenties in human terms, perhaps early thirties but she thinks the former. Yes, the former. His skin is very fine, made of millions of tiny scales altered over the passage of time and evolution into something like her own skin. Is this skin smooth, rough, different? Is it warmer than her own, cooler? Perhaps she will find out.
She would love to look into his fascinating eyes, but dare not, so she studies his hands. They are slender, not womanish but slender for a man, or indeed a being who is not man but male. Slender because the fingers are long, and they are tipped by pointed black claws.
The claws are a dull black, pointed but not sharpened to a weapons edge. They look satiny on their surface, are cared for in a masculine way. He has pushed the sleeves of his black tunic up his arms a little so they do not get in the way of what he must do. She can see where the muscle starts to build in his arms… That the pattern continues, defining the musculature, swirling dramatically over the skin…
She watches his slender hands fly over the keys and is lost in the graceful spare movements he makes. The Aide looks up into her eyes, smiles at her, snaps his fingers and for her amusement, makes a spark of blue Force energy dance on his open hand. He grins at her and bends to his task again, as does she.
Just in time. Her mistress needs her services – she thought him thanks, felt a painful surge of desire suddenly speed through her body, settle in her loins where it makes her burn. She blushes, and he glances up at her, quickly steals a knowing look.
No, desire is not gentle at all.
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Another day. Standing in a crowd of people, he is behind her. The woman clasps her hands behind her back in her customary stance as she stands authoritatively looking over the assembly, but excited because he is there.
Time for adventure. She reaches a hand tentatively to him. Standing as he is with his hands clasped in front of him, he can discreetly catch hers.
He does She hears him slowly remove his gauntlets, thrust them into his belt. He steps a fraction closer.
What does she feel?
Ah, soft skin belied by it’s vibrant pattern of black on red. The palms are toughened, from weapons practice perhaps. It is a strong hand, with corded sinew and tendon running down the back and along the fingers. He flexes his hand as she examines it unseeingly, feels the small bones, moves them, plays with the thumb.
She strokes the long fingers, feels the pointed claws. The surface of them is indeed satiny, smooth. Her own palm is facing outward and he interlaces his fingers with hers, the back of his hand against her palm, flexes and unflexes his strong fingers again.
Now she flexes hers against his, strokes and caresses all she can. She would like the hand elsewhere on her body, on her bare skin, caressing her neck, her shoulder.
She hears his breathing deepen and suddenly the hand is there. She feels it brush lightly across the curve of her neck, faintly caress her shoulder. It is warm, thrilling, she bites her lip, blushes a little and looks at her boots. Enjoys, smiles.
Palpatine enters the room and the Aide turns to attend him, releases her hand with a brush of his finger tips on hers, attention turning away as it must.
But as he does, she feels a warm breath against her ear, a parting touch.
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Yet another day and he is not here, he must attend his master.
And she was so hoping…
The woman leans on the gallery window, nose to the glass, spreads her hands against the stars. She wants to fall through the glass, float over the planet, draws in her breath at the beauty of what she sees.
There is a phantom touch on her cheek, the ghost of a kiss on her lips, a whisper in her mind. He romances her.
“Shall we fly then my Lady?” the thought comes into her mind.
“Oh yes!” she replies, her mouth framing the words silently as she stares at the stars.
She stretches her hand onto the glass, flexes it, and feels the brush of his fingers on hers, then suddenly a clawed hand snatches her wrist, takes her out of the ship.
His love for her is growing. He likes her strong mind and fierce spirit, she has a wildness about her that appeals to his own. There is a dormant feral streak – suppressed by her teachings, controlled by self-restraint built over years of practice. Shall he awaken it again?
Too late, he has, with his strange and gentle lovers touch. He is careful with her, wants her with every fibre of his being. Wants to wrap her in his arms forever, needs to bury his body in hers for ever. His instincts tell him to take her, waylay her, force himself onto and into her. For him this is a physical imperative, part of his culture, his species, his tribe. But he woos her, makes his body wait for the pleasure that will be theirs, knowing that it will then be the greater.
Together they fall into the sun, make sport in the corona. The solar wind brushes against her face, gamma kisses her skin, makes tiny sparks, while x-ray strokes her flesh with trailing touches. She bathes in it as he leads her though it.
She tugs at her tunic, pulls it off her shoulders a little, lets the radiation play on her neck, her throat. She feels him staring, he finds her neck and throat most erotic, has become aroused at this small glimpse of her skin, the little flesh she has revealed, the few soft curves of her that he can see.
Smiling broadly, she mischievously enjoys his sudden frustration and need, teases, pulls away, stretches, flexes her body beguilingly at him.
He does not need to be coaxed. She finds an insubstantial body pressed against her own, ethereal hands hold her head, and he urgently plants a million kisses on her face. Like gamma, hot sparks of love and light.
She answers him in kind, giving this black magician all she can give in this form, until they float gently among the stars, wondering at what they do, how they do it.
His master needs his service again. Regretfully, for he must go, he brings her back to the gallery, kisses the back of her neck, leaves her there.
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She is ready now. Her eyes sparkle, her skin glows, and she is suddenly aware of the pleasure inherent in the everyday use of her body. Small pleasures, in feeling the rough texture of her tunic, water running over her skin, hearing her lover breathe when he is close, seeing his graceful walk towards her.
And the extraordinary things: the shiver which goes up her spine when she sees him, the glow in her belly when she feels his kiss, his touch.
There is such pleasure in these things.
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Dark Lady 26 Sep 2000