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Description

Another short fic about a hapless heroine tangling with Jabba the Hutt.

Coya is an OC. Art adapted from the Tag & Bink graphic novel.

The palace was thick with spiced smoke. It stung Coya’s eyes as she gazed out over the dance-floor, where a pretty, slender Pantoran girl danced and span gracefully, loin-cloths fluttering about her long bare legs. Coya watched sullenly, resenting the girl’s skill. She knew that her own dancing was clumsy.

But her master was enjoying the show; Coya could tell by the swaying motion of his vast gut behind her, by the excited slaps of his tail against her bare legs, by the slight pressure on the collar about her neck as he fondled the heavy chain leash which bound her to him.

Like many young spacefarers in the age of the High Republic, Coya had joined the Picket Fleet of the Corporate Sector Authority as soon as she was able, in the hope of adventure away from her placid agricultural world. For three years her work on security details had been uneventful, mostly supervising grain shipments between backwater planets. After her promotion to Corporal, Coya had requested a transfer – and had been delighted when her next posting was as part of the security team upon a merchant ship carrying valuable cargo across the distant Arkanis Sector.

Her excitement had soured when her first experience of action came; a lightening ambush by experienced pirates, Coya and her small security detail had been overpowered almost before they could react. Most of the survivors were bundled into the hold to be sold as slaves to Outer Rim mining concerns, but the pirates had a better plan for Coya. She was added to the share of the loot being sent as a tribute to their overlord, and within a matter of days she being bundled from a smuggling corvette onto a backwater desert planet, and from there into the belly of a cargo skiff which flew for hours over an endless explanse of sand.

When Coya finally found herself led down a winding staircase into the dank caverns beneath a crumbling palace, she was stealing herself for months of captivity, interrogation, and even torture. But within minutes of being led into the smoke-filled throne-room of Jabba the Hutt, she had realised that things were much worse.

Jabba was taken with his pretty, luckless captive. Coya was twenty-three, with a farm-girl’s simple prettiness and a soldier’s lithe muscle. A collar was fastened around her neck, stamped with the symbol of her new owner, and before the whole court she was stripped naked and then dressed in the humiliatingly scanty garb of a dancing-girl. She was kept on a leash like a pet, and forced to dance for her meals when she wanted anything more than scraps from her master’s table. Since she spoke no Huttese, and he refused to speak Basic, most of her master’s communications to his new slave were simply tugs of varying strength upon her collar, sometimes hauling her to-and-fro upon the throne as she desparately sought to keep some semblance of modesty and dignity.

From time to time, a battered protocol droid with flaking red paint would translate one of his barked commands or jests, though invariably by the time it had finished Jabba had lost patience, and simply yanked Coya into whatever position he desired. Only when he wished to pointedly mock her did the droid earn its keep – pointing out pirate crews and asking if she wished to try and arrest them, or noting fresh prizes taken by the crew who had captured her.

A week after her arrival, and Coya had half-adjusted to her new routine. Feeding the master by hand, massaging his greasy back, enduring his slobbering attentions...and endless hours spent lying on his throne as a fuming, impotent trophy.

But Coya had not lost all of her spirit. She was determined to escape, and what was more, to avenge her humiliation. She had seen the flyers and speeders in the vehicle bay – had kept her eyes open during the long hours spent languishing on Jabba’s throne, noting which courtiers carried weapons, and the comings and goings of the guards. A plan was slowly forming for escape. And, she thought recklessly, if all else fails the leash is as good a weapon as any – I can give the old slug something to remember me by before the guards reach me.

The Pantoran girl on the dance-floor kicked high, her teal skin catching the moonlight which lanced into the throne room through long shafts. She wore an outfit every bit as skimpy as Coya’s, and a collar which showed her to be a fellow slave-girl - but she danced as though the hooting, ogling courtiers simply weren’t present. Coya couldn’t imagine herself ever being so comfortable semi-naked before such a crowd.

A tug at her collar. She had learned to interpret most of them, and obediently settled against her master’s slimy belly – though not without as wince as the wet folds of fat and congealed grease pressed against the bare skin of her toned, slender back.

Jabba let the leash fall slack to the throne beside her, and rumbled something that might have been a question. From his gesture she guessed he referred to the Pantoran dancer.

‘Your master wishes to know if his little slave enjoys the performance?’ the droid stuttered, its clipped tone sounding absurd with the leering words. Coya glowered up at Jabba, not gracing him with an answer. It was a small defiance, but he let it pass, looking away with a chuckle as he spoke again.

‘You master says you should watch, and learn,’ said the droid. ‘He says his slave will have to dance for him soon, since she must be hungry.’

It had been two days since Coya had last submitted to the demand to dance, and all that she had eaten was the leg of a paddy-frog Jabba had absently tossed her that morning. She ignored the jibe, and – suddenly reckless – sat up, shuffling forward from the position she had been summoned to. She felt the slug shift behind her, and wondered if she had pushed her luck too far – but her master only chuckled again, and took another frog from the aquarium beside his throne.

The dancing-girl had noticed. She winked at Coya as she twirled past, and then, seeing her frown in response, blew her a mocking kiss. The music came to a climax, and the blue-skinned girl span one last time and flung up her slim arms to acknowledge her master’s applause.

Jabba’s fist slammed down on the button beside his throne with a force that made Coya jump. In an instant the floor beneath the dancing girl opened – Coya caught a glimpse of shock and horror on the slave-dancer’s lovely face, and then with a horrid shriek the girl was gone.

The throne lurched forward as excited courtiers rushed to the dance-floor. Coya heard the Pantoran scream again, and an answering growl. With a sickening sensation in her belly, she realised the purpose of the grated floor and the cavern beneath.

Jabba took hold of her collar before she could turn away. He held her, chuckling, until the horrible spectacle was done. As the throne lurched back into place he pulled her close, and this time she offered no resistance. He lifted her chin with a flabby hand and spoke mockingly, holding her so close to his vast maw that specks of slime and spittle flecked Coya’s face and neck.

‘Your master wants to know,’ said the droid. ‘If his slave enjoyed that performance.’

Coya gazed fearfully into her master’s cruel eyes, realising for the first time how awful her situation was.

‘Yes, master,’ she said.

Jabba caressed her almost tenderly, running a fat finger down her cheek and neck before he took up her leash again. He gave her a shorter length this time, and as she sank back into the greasy folds of his belly, Coya found herself wondering if her escape plan was practical.

Perhaps, she thought, I should practice my dancing.

Description

Another short fic about a hapless heroine tangling with Jabba the Hutt.

Coya is an OC. Art adapted from the Tag & Bink graphic novel.

The palace was thick with spiced smoke. It stung Coya’s eyes as she gazed out over the dance-floor, where a pretty, slender Pantoran girl danced and span gracefully, loin-cloths fluttering about her long bare legs. Coya watched sullenly, resenting the girl’s skill. She knew that her own dancing was clumsy.

But her master was enjoying the show; Coya could tell by the swaying motion of his vast gut behind her, by the excited slaps of his tail against her bare legs, by the slight pressure on the collar about her neck as he fondled the heavy chain leash which bound her to him.

Like many young spacefarers in the age of the High Republic, Coya had joined the Picket Fleet of the Corporate Sector Authority as soon as she was able, in the hope of adventure away from her placid agricultural world. For three years her work on security details had been uneventful, mostly supervising grain shipments between backwater planets. After her promotion to Corporal, Coya had requested a transfer – and had been delighted when her next posting was as part of the security team upon a merchant ship carrying valuable cargo across the distant Arkanis Sector.

Her excitement had soured when her first experience of action came; a lightening ambush by experienced pirates, Coya and her small security detail had been overpowered almost before they could react. Most of the survivors were bundled into the hold to be sold as slaves to Outer Rim mining concerns, but the pirates had a better plan for Coya. She was added to the share of the loot being sent as a tribute to their overlord, and within a matter of days she being bundled from a smuggling corvette onto a backwater desert planet, and from there into the belly of a cargo skiff which flew for hours over an endless explanse of sand.

When Coya finally found herself led down a winding staircase into the dank caverns beneath a crumbling palace, she was stealing herself for months of captivity, interrogation, and even torture. But within minutes of being led into the smoke-filled throne-room of Jabba the Hutt, she had realised that things were much worse.

Jabba was taken with his pretty, luckless captive. Coya was twenty-three, with a farm-girl’s simple prettiness and a soldier’s lithe muscle. A collar was fastened around her neck, stamped with the symbol of her new owner, and before the whole court she was stripped naked and then dressed in the humiliatingly scanty garb of a dancing-girl. She was kept on a leash like a pet, and forced to dance for her meals when she wanted anything more than scraps from her master’s table. Since she spoke no Huttese, and he refused to speak Basic, most of her master’s communications to his new slave were simply tugs of varying strength upon her collar, sometimes hauling her to-and-fro upon the throne as she desparately sought to keep some semblance of modesty and dignity.

From time to time, a battered protocol droid with flaking red paint would translate one of his barked commands or jests, though invariably by the time it had finished Jabba had lost patience, and simply yanked Coya into whatever position he desired. Only when he wished to pointedly mock her did the droid earn its keep – pointing out pirate crews and asking if she wished to try and arrest them, or noting fresh prizes taken by the crew who had captured her.

A week after her arrival, and Coya had half-adjusted to her new routine. Feeding the master by hand, massaging his greasy back, enduring his slobbering attentions...and endless hours spent lying on his throne as a fuming, impotent trophy.

But Coya had not lost all of her spirit. She was determined to escape, and what was more, to avenge her humiliation. She had seen the flyers and speeders in the vehicle bay – had kept her eyes open during the long hours spent languishing on Jabba’s throne, noting which courtiers carried weapons, and the comings and goings of the guards. A plan was slowly forming for escape. And, she thought recklessly, if all else fails the leash is as good a weapon as any – I can give the old slug something to remember me by before the guards reach me.

The Pantoran girl on the dance-floor kicked high, her teal skin catching the moonlight which lanced into the throne room through long shafts. She wore an outfit every bit as skimpy as Coya’s, and a collar which showed her to be a fellow slave-girl - but she danced as though the hooting, ogling courtiers simply weren’t present. Coya couldn’t imagine herself ever being so comfortable semi-naked before such a crowd.

A tug at her collar. She had learned to interpret most of them, and obediently settled against her master’s slimy belly – though not without as wince as the wet folds of fat and congealed grease pressed against the bare skin of her toned, slender back.

Jabba let the leash fall slack to the throne beside her, and rumbled something that might have been a question. From his gesture she guessed he referred to the Pantoran dancer.

‘Your master wishes to know if his little slave enjoys the performance?’ the droid stuttered, its clipped tone sounding absurd with the leering words. Coya glowered up at Jabba, not gracing him with an answer. It was a small defiance, but he let it pass, looking away with a chuckle as he spoke again.

‘You master says you should watch, and learn,’ said the droid. ‘He says his slave will have to dance for him soon, since she must be hungry.’

It had been two days since Coya had last submitted to the demand to dance, and all that she had eaten was the leg of a paddy-frog Jabba had absently tossed her that morning. She ignored the jibe, and – suddenly reckless – sat up, shuffling forward from the position she had been summoned to. She felt the slug shift behind her, and wondered if she had pushed her luck too far – but her master only chuckled again, and took another frog from the aquarium beside his throne.

The dancing-girl had noticed. She winked at Coya as she twirled past, and then, seeing her frown in response, blew her a mocking kiss. The music came to a climax, and the blue-skinned girl span one last time and flung up her slim arms to acknowledge her master’s applause.

Jabba’s fist slammed down on the button beside his throne with a force that made Coya jump. In an instant the floor beneath the dancing girl opened – Coya caught a glimpse of shock and horror on the slave-dancer’s lovely face, and then with a horrid shriek the girl was gone.

The throne lurched forward as excited courtiers rushed to the dance-floor. Coya heard the Pantoran scream again, and an answering growl. With a sickening sensation in her belly, she realised the purpose of the grated floor and the cavern beneath.

Jabba took hold of her collar before she could turn away. He held her, chuckling, until the horrible spectacle was done. As the throne lurched back into place he pulled her close, and this time she offered no resistance. He lifted her chin with a flabby hand and spoke mockingly, holding her so close to his vast maw that specks of slime and spittle flecked Coya’s face and neck.

‘Your master wants to know,’ said the droid. ‘If his slave enjoyed that performance.’

Coya gazed fearfully into her master’s cruel eyes, realising for the first time how awful her situation was.

‘Yes, master,’ she said.

Jabba caressed her almost tenderly, running a fat finger down her cheek and neck before he took up her leash again. He gave her a shorter length this time, and as she sank back into the greasy folds of his belly, Coya found herself wondering if her escape plan was practical.

Perhaps, she thought, I should practice my dancing.