Chapter 1: The Jedi's New Collar
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The *Star Chaser* shuddered like a dying beast, its engines coughing out black smoke as Elara Vance fought the controls, her knuckles white around the yoke. The ship groaned, a metallic scream that rattled her bones, and then—silence. The sudden stillness was worse than the chaos. She exhaled sharply, her breath fogging the cracked viewport as she stared at the jagged silhouette of Mos Eisley looming ahead.
*Fuck.*
She didn’t have time for this. The Republic needed that data drive delivered—*now*—and her ship was bleeding fuel like a slit throat. Her fingers flew over the console, but the diagnostics were dead, the screens flickering with static. She swore again, slamming her palm against the panel. The pain barely registered.
She had to land.
The *Star Chaser* was a corpse now, its systems dead, its hull groaning as it spiraled toward Mos Eisley’s dust-choked streets. Elara’s fingers tightened on the controls, her breath coming fast as she wrestled the ship into a shaky descent. The viewport framed her reflection—dark hair tangled from the struggle, her lips parted in frustration, her chest heaving beneath the snug fit of her Jedi robes. The fabric strained against the swell of her breasts, the deep V-neckline revealing just enough to make a man’s throat go dry. Even in crisis, she was stunning.
The landing was rough. The ship’s underbelly scraped against the durasteel dock, sending a shudder through the hull. Elara didn’t wait for the ramp to lower—she kicked open the emergency hatch and dropped into the sweltering heat of Mos Eisley’s back alleys.
The stench of fried durasteel and recycled coolant clung to the air as she wanked down the narrow passage, her boots kicking up dust that swirled in the flickering neon glow of a nearby sign. **Watto’s Ship Parts** blinked in jagged red letters, the holographic letters flickering like a dying star.
She stopped dead. Of course. The greasy little Toydarian would be exactly the kind of scum who’d have what she needed—and exactly the kind of problem she didn’t have time for.
But the Republic’s mission didn’t care about her personal vendettas. She adjusted the straps of her pack, the weight of the broken data drive pressing against her back. If Watto had the parts, she’d deal with him. If he didn’t? Well. She’d deal with him anyway.
The alley narrowed as she approached, the shadows deepening around her.
The door to Watto’s shop was propped open, a dim glow spilling into the street. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of oil and sweat, the hum of broken machinery filling the silence. And there, bent over a rusted droid leg, was a slave elf—her curves straining against the thin, tattered rags that barely covered her body. Her hips swayed with each sweep of the broom, the muscles of her back flexing as she worked, her long, silver hair cascading down her shoulders in tangled waves.
Elara’s breath hitched. The elf was stunning—her skin glowed faintly in the dim light, her full breasts pressing against the frayed fabric of her top with every movement. A thin sheen of sweat made her skin glisten, and Elara could see the way her nipples hardened against the rough material, the faint outline of them visible even from where she stood.
The collar around her neck was a crude thing, the metal dented and scratched, the name *Watto* etched into it in jagged letters. A chain led from the ring at its front, coiled on the floor like a sleeping serpent.
Elara’s jaw tightened. This was exactly the kind of filth she’d expected from Watto. The elf’s eyes flicked up as she sensed the Jedi’s presence, and for a moment, their gazes locked—something unspoken passing between them. Then the elf’s lips parted, just slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but the chain at her neck gave a sharp tug, yanking her back into the shadows.
A rasping chuckle echoed from the back room. “Ah, Jedi! I *knew* you’d come crawling back to me.” Watto’s voice slithered through the air, thick with amusement.
She turned her head slowly, her eyes narrowing as the Toydarian emerged from the shadows like something dragged from a swamp. The sight of him made her stomach clench—his bloated blue body glistened with a sickly sheen of sweat, his wings fluttering with the wet sound of damp leather. His trunk, that grotesque, fleshy proboscis, twitched as he sniffed the air, nostrils flaring with the greed of a scavenger. His beady eyes, too close together, gleamed with something between lust and cruelty as they raked over her, lingering on the swell of her breasts where the Jedi robes clung too tightly. A thin line of drool glistened at the corner of his lipless mouth, and the stench of him—rotten meat and grease—hit her like a physical blow. She fought the urge to gag.
"I need parts, Watto. And I don't have time for your games."
The Toydarian's wings fluttered with delight as he waddled closer, his trunk curling in anticipation. "Ah, but time is exactly what you *will* have, Jedi. That pretty ship of yours is dead in the water, and I've got the only working hyperdrive core in this sector." His beady eyes flicked down to her chest again, lingering on the way her robes strained against her curves. "Unless you'd rather... *negotiate* another form of payment?"
The elf slave in the corner stiffened, her broom pausing mid-sweep as she watched the exchange with wide, fearful eyes. The chain at her neck clinked softly against the floor.
Elara's fingers twitched toward her lightsaber, but she forced herself to remain still. "I have credits.
Enough to cover the parts and then some." Elara's voice was steady, but her fingers flexed near her belt—close enough to the hilt of her lightsaber that Watto's beady eyes flicked down to track the motion.
The Toydarian let out a wheezing laugh, his trunk curling in delight as he waddled behind the elf, his stubby fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass with possessive greed. She flinched but didn’t pull away, her breath hitching as his claws dug in deeper. "Oh, I *know* you have credits, Jedi," he rasped, his wings fluttering with amusement. "But I also know you don’t have *time* to shop around. And I *love* a desperate customer." His trunk twitched toward Elara’s chest again, lingering on the way her robes strained against her curves. "Tell me, do all Jedi Knights wear their robes so...
*tight*?" Watto’s trunk curled in a grotesque approximation of a smile, his beady eyes glinting with something far more sinister than simple greed. His stubby fingers dug into the elf’s soft flesh again, making her gasp as he pulled her back against his bloated body, the chain at her neck clinking against the metal floor. "You *will* pay, Jedi. But not with credits."
Elara’s fingers twitched toward her lightsaber, but she forced herself to stay still. The elf’s wide, fearful eyes met hers for a split second—pleading, desperate—and then flickered away as Watto’s trunk slithered up her neck, leaving a wet trail of saliva in its wake. The Toydarian’s wings fluttered with excitement, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps as he ground his hips against the elf’s ass, his grotesque body pressing into her curves.
*"You like her, I won her in a poker game—she is delightful,"* he croaked, his ugly, three-fingered hand cupping her fat tit, squeezing hard enough to make her moan despite herself. The sound was soft, almost pained, but Watto’s trunk curled in delight, slithering up her neck to taste the salt of her skin.
Elara’s fingers tightened around her lightsaber hilt, her jaw clenching as she watched the elf’s face—her lips parted, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her eyes darting between the Jedi and the floor. The chain at her throat rattled as Watto yanked her back against him, his trunk flicking out to trace the curve of her collarbone.
*"Such a pretty thing,"* Watto rasped, his claws digging into the elf’s breast, twisting just enough to make her whimper. *"So soft.
So warm."* Watto's trunk curled around the elf's neck, his claws kneading her flesh as he dragged her closer, the chain at her throat clinking like a death rattle. His other hand—three-fingered and calloused—cupped her breast, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp, her back arching involuntarily against his bloated body. *"Such a delightful little thing,"* he croaked, his wings fluttering with perverse delight as the elf's moan trembled through the air, thick with pain and something darker.
Then, without warning, his fat hand cracked against her ass with a wet, echoing slap that made the flesh jiggle violently beneath his palm. The elf yelped, her body jerking forward, but Watto’s trunk lashed out, snaking around her throat to yank her back against his bloated body. *"Now go find those parts, Jedi,"* he sneered, his beady eyes never leaving Elara as he gave the elf’s ass another hard squeeze, his claws digging in deep enough to leave crescent-shaped marks in her soft flesh. *"And you—"* he snarled, shoving the elf forward with enough force to make her stumble, *"—get back to work.
The *Star Chaser* needs those parts installed before the sun sets, or I’ll have your hide for a new droid cover."*
The elf didn’t look back, but her fingers trembled as she gathered the tools from the rusted workbench, her silver hair falling in tangled strands over her face. The chain at her throat rattled with each step, the collar’s metal biting into her skin. Elara watched her go, her jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
---
The *Star Chaser* sat in Watto’s yard like a wounded beast, its hull scarred and its engines silent. The air smelled of burnt wiring and the metallic tang of fresh durasteel, the heat of Tatooine’s twin suns pressing down like a weight. Scritch was already hunched over the open access panel, his crooked fingers working with surprising precision despite their gnarled state.
The Jawa’s hunched back twitched as he muttered to himself in a guttural language, his hooded robes barely containing the stench of reactor coolant and rusted metal. The new hyperdrive core sat on a cracked durasteel tray beside him, its polished surface gleaming obscenely in the yard’s flickering floodlights—far too clean for this place. Elara’s fingers curled into fists as she watched him work, her nails biting into her palms hard enough to draw blood.
The Jawa’s breath came in ragged wheezes, each exhale carrying the scent of burnt wiring and something fouler—like he’d been chewing on circuit boards again. His clawed fingers traced the ship’s exposed wiring with unsettling familiarity, his eyes gleaming with that same hungry intensity she’d seen in scavengers back in the Outer Rim. When he finally spoke, his voice was a wet rasp, like gears grinding in a rusted machine.
"You're lucky I'm here, Jedi," he croaked, his gnarled fingers tracing the exposed wiring with unsettling precision. "Watto's parts are junk—this one's clean. Too clean." His beady eyes flicked up to hers, and Elara saw something flicker in their depths—something far too intelligent for a scavenger.
Elara's stomach twisted as she took in the full horror of Scritch's appearance. His face was a nightmare of twisted flesh, his skin stretched too tight over jagged bone, as if someone had tried to stitch together a Jawa from spare parts. One eye was milky and blind, the other a bulbous, yellowed thing that rolled in its socket like a loose bearing. His lips were split and cracked, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth that clacked together when he spoke. The stench of him was overwhelming—burnt wiring, rancid oil, and something foul that made her gorge rise.
Scritch’s gnarled fingers froze mid-twist on a frayed power conduit, his milky eye rolling toward her with a wet, clicking sound. Then his split lips curled back in a grin that exposed those needle-thin teeth, his breath hissing through the gaps like a broken droid.
*"Fast work for fast payment,"* he rasped, his voice like rusted metal scraping against bone. *"Show me those pretty tits, Jedi, and I’ll have this core humming before Watto’s even finished counting his credits."* His clawed hand twitched toward the hyperdrive core, but his beady eye never left the swell of her breasts beneath her robes, his tongue flicking out to wet his cracked lips.
Elara’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her lightsaber, the hum of its activation coil a silent promise in her grip.
*"You’re a fool if you think I’ll bargain with my body for your filthy work, Jawa,"* she said, her voice low and dangerous, but Scritch only let out a wet, rattling laugh, his milky eye gleaming with something between amusement and hunger.
*"Then you’ll wait,"* he croaked, his clawed fingers tightening around the hyperdrive core with deliberate slowness. *"And Watto will charge you double. Triple. Maybe he’ll even take that pretty ship of yours as payment—"* His tongue flicked out again, tracing the edge of his cracked lips. *"Or maybe he’ll just take *you* instead."* The Jawa’s grin widened, his needle-teeth glinting in the dim light as his free hand crept toward the exposed wiring, his movements deliberately sluggish, taunting.
Elara’s fingers tightened around the front of her robes, her jaw clenched as she yanked the fabric open with a sharp, violent motion. The cool air of the junkyard hit her bare skin, her full breasts spilling free, their weight shifting slightly as she stood there, her nipples hardening in the heat. She met Scritch’s leering gaze with a glare, her voice low and venomous as she muttered, *"Hurry up, you ugly piece of shit."*
The Jawa’s breath hitched, his milky eye rolling back in his skull as his clawed fingers twitched toward the hyperdrive core. His tongue flicked out again, tracing the edge of his cracked lips as he let out a wet, rattling laugh. *"Ohhh, Jedi,"* he croaked, his voice dripping with mock reverence. *"Such a pretty sight.
Make them bounce for me, Jedi,"* Scritch rasped, his clawed fingers tightening around the hyperdrive core as his milky eye gleamed with perverse delight. *"Just a little jiggle. For my... inspiration."*
Elara’s jaw clenched so hard she thought her teeth might shatter. The heat of Tatooine’s twin suns pressed down on her bare skin, making the sweat bead between her breasts, but she refused to let the Jawa see how much this humiliation burned. With a slow, deliberate motion, she cupped her hands beneath the weight of her breasts, lifting them slightly before letting them fall with a soft, heavy bounce. The flesh quivered, the movement deliberate and controlled, her nipples hardening against the dry air. She met Scritch’s gaze with a glare, her voice a low, dangerous whisper.
*"Hurry up, you ugly piece of shit."*
The Jawa’s milky eye rolled in its socket, his tongue flicking out to wet cracked lips as he took in the sight of her—bare before him, her full breasts heavy and flushed, her nipples tight peaks in the desert heat. His clawed fingers twitched around the hyperdrive core, but his other hand crept toward the exposed wiring, his movements slow, deliberate, taunting. The stench of him—burnt metal and something fouler—thickened the air as he let out a wet, rattling laugh.
*"Ohhh, Jedi,"* he croaked, his voice like rusted gears grinding together."*
Elara’s fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms hard enough to draw blood. The humiliation burned, but she refused to let him see it.
With a sharp jerk, Elara yanked her robes closed, the fabric snapping against her skin as she tied the sash with brutal efficiency. The Jawa’s milky eye followed her every movement, his tongue flicking out over cracked lips like a serpent tasting the air. *"Such a shame,"* he rasped, his voice thick with disappointment as the last inch of her cleavage vanished beneath the Jedi robes. *"But a deal is a deal."* His clawed fingers twitched toward the hyperdrive core, the metal gleaming under the flickering floodlights of Watto’s yard.
The moment the core was seated, Elara’s hand shot out, her fingers closing around Scritch’s wrist with crushing force. The Jawa let out a wet, rattling gasp as she twisted his arm behind his back, her other hand already igniting her lightsaber with a hiss of blue plasma.
The blade hummed to life between them, casting jagged shadows across the rusted hull of the *Star Chaser*—now whole again, its engines purring with restored power. Elara’s breath came fast, her chest heaving beneath her robes as she felt the ship’s systems thrum beneath her fingertips, alive and obedient once more. A triumphant laugh bubbled up her throat, sharp and unguarded, as she shoved Scritch away with enough force to send the Jawa sprawling into a pile of scrap.
"Good work, you disgusting little worm," she panted, her voice thick with satisfaction as she ran her palm along the ship’s hull. The metal was warm beneath her touch, humming with the promise of escape. The hyperdrive core pulsed steadily, its energy thrumming through the deck plates like a heartbeat.
Elara exhaled sharply, her fingers lingering on the warm metal of the *Star Chaser*’s hull. The ship was ready. She could feel it—the hum of restored power, the promise of escape. A slow, satisfied grin curled her lips as she turned away from the Jawa’s groaning form, her boots crunching over broken durasteel as she strode toward the exit.
Then the door hissed open, and Watto waddled into the yard, his wings fluttering with perverse excitement. His trunk curled toward her, sniffing the air with wet, greedy curiosity. *"Hey, Jedi,"* he croaked, his voice dripping with false charm. *"How about a kiss before you go?"*
Elara’s hand twitched toward her lightsaber, but she forced it to remain at her side. The Toydarian’s beady eyes gleamed with something far more sinister than simple lust—this was a test. A challenge.
That’s what this was. Watto’s trunk twitched toward her, his beady eyes glinting with cruel amusement as he took in her flushed cheeks, the way her breath still came too fast from the confrontation with Scritch. He was ugly in a way that made her stomach turn—his bloated blue body glistening with sweat, his wings fluttering like damp leather, his trunk slithering through the air like a diseased appendage. The stench of him was worse up close, a mix of rotting meat and burnt oil that made her gorge rise. She could see the wet sheen of his skin, the way his lipless mouth curled back to reveal rows of needle-thin teeth, the way his trunk pulsed with each wet, rasping breath.
"You’re ugly," she said flatly, her voice dripping with disdain. "And pathetic.
You Jedi think you’re better than everyone else, don’t you?" Watto’s trunk curled back in disgust as he spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the durasteel floor between them. "Well, I’m sick of you. Sick of your holier-than-thou attitude. Sick of your *pretty* face." His beady eyes raked over her with open contempt, lingering on the way her robes clung to her curves. The spittle glistened at the corner of his lipless mouth, his voice rising into a wheezing snarl. "You think you can just waltz in here, flash your tits at my mechanic, and leave without paying the *real* price?"
Elara’s fingers twitched toward her lightsaber, but she forced them to remain still. The Toydarian’s words burned like acid, but she refused to let him see it.
Instead, she let her gaze drag over his grotesque form with deliberate slowness—from the bloated, glistening blue flesh of his body to the obscene, twitching trunk that dangled between his stubby legs like a diseased appendage. His wings fluttered with perverse excitement, the damp leather sound making her stomach clench, and his beady eyes gleamed with something between lust and cruelty as he waited for her to recoil. *"You’re right,"* she said, her voice dripping with cold amusement. *"I don’t find you attractive. In fact, you’re the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen."*
Watto’s trunk curled back in disgust, his lipless mouth twisting into a snarl. *"You think you’re so high and mighty, Jedi?"* he rasped, his voice thick with venom.
Let me remind you—you’re nothing but a pretty face in a dirty robe, and I’ve got you right where I want you."*
Elara’s fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to meet his gaze. The Toydarian was barely taller than her waist, his bloated blue body glistening with sweat as he waddled closer, his wings fluttering with perverse excitement. His trunk slithered through the air like a diseased appendage, the wet, rasping sound making her stomach clench. She could smell the stench of him—rotting meat and burnt oil—thickening the air between them.
His trunk curled toward her, twitching with perverse excitement as he waddled closer, his bloated blue body barely reaching the swell of her breasts. The disparity was grotesque, his stubby legs wobbling beneath the weight of his obscene bulk, his wings fluttering like damp leather as he strained to meet her gaze. The Toydarian’s beady eyes gleamed with something between lust and cruelty as he took in the sight of her—tall, powerful, her Jedi robes clinging to curves that made his trunk twitch with hunger. He was barely taller than her waist, his bloated body glistening with sweat as he waddled closer, his wings fluttering with perverse excitement. The stench of him was overwhelming, a mix of rotting meat and burnt oil that made her gorge rise.
**"I’ve had enough of this."**
Elara’s hand moved faster than thought, her fingers closing around the hilt of her lightsaber with a fluid motion that had been drilled into her muscles over years of training. The blade ignited with a sharp *hiss*, casting jagged blue shadows across Watto’s grotesque form as she brought it up in a defensive stance. The Toydarian’s beady eyes widened for just a second—then his lipless mouth split into a wet, rasping laugh.
**"Ohhh, Jedi,"** he croaked, his trunk curling in amusement as he waddled backward. **"You think that little stick scares me?"**
The ground beneath her feet *shifted*.
A sudden, crushing weight pressed down on her, as if an invisible hand had clamped around her body. Her knees buckled, her lightsaber flickering as she fought to keep it raised.
The world tilted, the jagged blue glow of her blade blurring into streaks of light as darkness clawed at the edges of her vision—then swallowed her whole.
---
The last thing she saw was Watto’s grotesque trunk curling back in triumph, his beady eyes gleaming with victory as he let out a wet, rattling laugh. *"That’s right, Jedi,"* he croaked, his voice thick with glee. *"Sleep now. You’ll wake up in a much more... accommodating position."* Then the darkness took her, and she knew no more.
---
When consciousness returned, it came in fragments—first the dull ache in her skull, then the cold press of durasteel against her bare back, the rough texture of restraints biting into her wrists and ankles. The air smelled of ozone and something fouler, the hum of machinery vibrating through the floor beneath her.