Disclaimer - People and places discovered by George Lucas and Lucasfilm belong to them. The story and concept is mine.
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Her dark warrior strides down the passageway of the battleship to his assignation, his cloak tossed over his right shoulder and hand on the hilt of his light sabre, his military boots ringing on the metal decking. The cloak flutters after him, like the wings of some night creature.
He bears a feral grin, anticipating certain delights, although he is perhaps undecided as yet about the bearer of these same delights. His yellow eyes glitter - he is in the mood for dalliance and affectionate pursuits.
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The woman waits with her back to the transparisteel window. The lighting in this gallery is dim, the better to observe the planet below. It is night, she is framed by starlight and set against a background of the galaxy and a turning planet. The setting makes her most lovely.
She leans against the window, ankles crossed, arms folded. Her clothing is plain, simple, dark breeches, a light coloured tunic, and serviceable boots. No ornament is visible on her person, no luxury, no maquillage, coiffure or paint, for she is also a warrior. Like his, her life has purpose, a meaning, and she is resolute, strong, fierce-willed. She also has a light sabre, and that is clipped to her belt, within reach should she require it.
The woman unfolds her arms, puts her hands behind her hips and against the window. This is a more open stance, more inviting. She tilts her head imperiously to one side, but her eyes glow and her lips are slightly parted.
Suddenly he is there, framed by the doorway. He closes the door and as he looks intently at her, gestures casually to it, locks it, secures them against intrusion, pauses a moment.
Looking at him, her dark warrior, wanting him as he comes towards her with his feral grin, not taking his eyes away from her face.
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Her head is proudly held high, she has eyes only for him. He is dark indeed, very dark. Yet he himself is vibrant, filled with the Force and a great power. The secret knowledge he has imbibed makes her mind reel with horror.
And excitement.
“I will have you” thought the Jedi woman, “no other but you my Lord, and that for ever.”
His eyes flicker with amusement at this thought, this turn of events. Does he read her mind? Does he know of her raging desire and need?
He doe, he knows.
He reads her mind, which shines like a beacon in this force-less backwater of the galaxy. Touching her mind again he discovers the depths of her want, the weight of it. It matches his own. The brightness of her soul complements perfectly his own dark one.
The woman directs all her power to him, fills him with her spirit, showing her love for him, waits. He replies in kind as he strides up to face her, left hand on sabre, just close enough.
Which is very close.
For a moment his mind is unguarded.
So he is Sith then!
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The Sith Lord is a little taller than the Jedi woman. He stands over her, looks down. His eyes are feral, wild, glittering gold now, ringed with fire. His lips part, just a little. The pupils widen, they are now black ringed with red, his nostrils flare. He grins. His fangs are white, pointed, sharp.
“And do you bite” she wonders. “Will you bite me my Lord, in your throes of passion when you take me?”
He very softly strokes her cheek once, in the Zabrak way, with his clawed hand. She catches the hand, kisses the palm and he takes the opportunity she has given him to move the hand to the back of her head, pull her to him. Stooping, he kisses her neck, slowly inhales her scent, murmurs…
“Oh I will bite my Lady!”
Very gently he kisses her lips, barely touching. Closing his eyes he uses the Force to get every bit of sensation he can from this small (as yet) contact.
The first time she has touched him in this way.
Such a touch. Such power in his being, such presence. She trembles at her audacity, but she wants him, will have him.
He knows it, acquiesces.
Fire stirs more in her loins, her belly. She flexes her hands, feels the shiver and burn run up her spine, up her neck, into her mind.
Yet she still burns deliciously.
Raising her hand, touching his cheek so wondrously soft and smooth, turning his beautiful head to hers, she strokes his fine lips with her fingers.
Then she kisses him, drowns in him. He replies as she wants, his arms are around her pulling her eagerly towards him, pulling her tight against his body. The spicy muskiness of him excites her, her breathing quickens.
Oh, this is wonderful. He is very strong this man, who is not a man at all. His arms could crush her if he wished, his hands break her bones, rend her sinews. But he knows his strength; measures it finely, dispenses it carefully, neither too much nor too little.
“Is your heart beating faster because I am near you?” she wonders, feeling the alien thread and beat of it against her chest. Her own heart is very fast as he brushes his hand over the front of her tunic, down to her waist and around her back.
She sighs, oh…
The Sith pulls his head back, smiles into her eyes, brings his hand to her neck, shoulder, tugs the tunic open a little, and as he kisses her again starts to slide it from her shoulder. The kiss distracts her momentarily as it is meant to, but she is not long distracted.
“My body is alien to you,” this thought arises in her as he finds he is fascinated by the swell of her breast and he touches, looks, cups it in his hand,
“but you like it.”
He likes it very much, is fascinated as the nipple peaks under his fingers, caresses some more, bends his horned head to kiss the soft skin and lick with his tongue.
His tongue is rough, but most delicately it rasps and scrapes over the soft skin, he is careful with her, he is so controlled, as is she.
There are other things also. He has no hair that she can see; does he have any at all?
Perhaps…
He brushes his cheek against her very short hair, strokes his face against it so he can feel the velvety texture on his skin, brushes it against his lips. This is very stimulating to him, most arousing. She feels it, against her belly.
She slowly draws her hands up over his head towards the horns and touches the velvet at the base of them, then firmly strokes this velvet. There is a sudden intake of breath. When she touches him here he jumps a little, looks surprised.
So she laughs so quietly and kisses him again, and places her hand on his tunic where it crosses over his throat. The soft dark skin, under his tunic, where does it lead, what does it promise?
She wonders what other differences there are in them, is curious.
She is virgin, no man (or not-man) has taken her yet, and she has not offered. No one has been worthy of such a gift as her body, let alone her heart and soul, neither has she felt the inclination, the need.
Until now.
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Dark Lady 26 Sep 2000