Chapter 3: The Hutt's arrival
The dawn was a liar. It painted the clearing in soft pinks and golds, a beautiful veneer over the residue of their night. Anakin stood apart, buckling his belt, the taste of Padmé’s mouth and the ache in his ass from Chewbacca a disorienting echo. The pretend day hadn’t started; it loomed. He felt it in the quiet, in the way Rey avoided his eyes as she pulled on her tunic, in the solemn rumble Chewbacca made as he gathered his bowcaster.
The hum cut through the morning birdsong—a deep, repulsorlift vibration that felt wrong in the sacred air. It wasn't a ship. It was a throne.
Jabba the Hutt’s conveyance floated into the clearing from a hidden path, crushing delicate silver blossoms beneath its tread. The Hutt himself was a mountain of sagging green flesh, his slit-pupiled eyes taking in the scene with immediate, lecherous understanding. He smelled of ozone, spice, and a profound, fungal dampness.
“Skywalk-errr,” he gurgled, his voice like stones grinding in oil. “The Republic’s favorite pet. And company.”
Aayla Secura emerged from behind the dais, naked, her blue skin gleaming. Her expression wasn’t shame or fear, but a focused, eager intensity. She moved with a Jedi’s grace to kneel beside Jabba’s bulk, her hand resting on his gelatinous side.
Anakin’s spine straightened, the Jedi Knight slamming back into place over the sated, frantic man of moments before. “Jabba. This is a private retreat.”
“Nothing is private from me on Naboo, boy,” Jabba chuckled, a sound that shook phlegm in his chest. “My intelligence suggested… interesting negotiations were happening. I came to observe. To participate.”
His massive, tapering tail shifted, and from a concealed slit beneath his bulk, his cock emerged. It was obscene—thick as a human thigh, a slick, mottled tube of flesh that dripped a clear, viscous fluid. The sight was a cold shock, a grotesque parody of the night’s passions.
Chewbacca growled, a warning deep in his throat. But Padmé placed a hand on Anakin’s arm. Her political mask was flawless, but her eyes held a dark curiosity. “He’s here, Ani. A show of… bad faith could harm my trade legislation.”
Anakin stared at her. Then at Jabba. Then at Aayla, who met his gaze and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. This was a different kind of surrender. A different kind of power.
The rebellion in Anakin, the one that hated the Council’s rules, that seethed at secret marriages, saw a new outlet. A darker one. To fuck, or to be fucked, in front of this gangster? It was the ultimate middle finger to the pristine, abstinent Jedi Code. It was degradation as defiance.
“Fine,” Anakin spat, the word venomous. “Observe.”
He turned, shedding his tunic again, his movements stiff with rage and a perverse thrill. He walked to a moss-covered fallen log, its surface soft and cool. He looked at Chewbacca, a silent command passing between them. The Wookiee understood the unspoken rage. He approached, his own renewed arousal evident.
Anakin bent over the log, gripping the ancient wood. He didn’t prepare, didn’t ask. He just presented himself, the pale cheeks of his ass still faintly marked from before. Chewbacca’s large hands gripped his hips, tight enough to bruise. There was no gentle nuzzle this time. The broad, leaking head of the Wookiee’s cock pressed against Anakin’s entrance, still loose and used.
“Do it,” Anakin ground out, his face pressed to the moss.
With a single, brutal shove of his hips, Chewbacca buried himself to the hilt. The stretch was immediate, shocking, a white-hot burst of pain-pleasure that stole Anakin’s breath. He shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound.
“Kriff! Yes, you furry bastard! Fuck me!”
Chewbacca roared in response, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in, setting a punishing, deep-stroking rhythm. Each thrust drove Anakin hard against the log, the rough bark scratching his stomach. The wet, meaty slap of their connection filled the clearing.
Anakin, his world reduced to the sensation of being split open, reached out. His hand found Rey, who was watching, hypnotized, her own need plain on her face. He grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward.
“On. Now,” he snarled, his voice shredded.
Rey scrambled onto the log, straddling him, facing Jabba’s dais. She guided Anakin’s cock into her with a desperate sigh. He was already iron-hard, fueled by pain and fury. He fucked up into her with short, savage jerks of his hips, a counter-rhythm to Chewbacca’s deep pounding behind him. Rey cried out, her head thrown back, her body a bridge between the two relentless motions.
Padmé watched, her diplomatic composure dissolving into something hungry and dark. She crawled across the silks toward Aayla. The Twi’lek was on her back now, her lekku fanned out, her legs spread wide in open invitation. Her bright eyes held Padmé’s.
“I’ve heard so much about the Senator’s… persuasiveness,” Aayla purred.
“Let me demonstrate,” Padmé said, her voice low.
She didn’t go for Aayla’s cunt. She lowered her face between the blue thighs, aiming lower. Her tongue, pointed and wet, traced a slow, deliberate circle around Aayla’s tight, pink asshole. Aayla gasped, her hips lifting off the ground.
Padmé pressed inward, her tongue flattening, then spearing past the resistant muscle. It was a tight, hot clutch. She fucked her tongue in and out, shallow at first, then deeper, her nose buried against Aayla’s perineum. The taste was musky, clean, alien. Aayla’s moans became a continuous stream of Huttese curses, her hands tangling in Padmé’s dark hair, urging her deeper.
“Right there… fuck, your tongue… don’t stop!”
Near the dais, Ahsoka stood before Jabba. She looked at his monstrous cock, dripping its slick onto the ornate metal. She felt no disgust, only a calculating curiosity, a test of her own limits. She climbed onto the dais, ignoring the sticky residue, and positioned herself over him.
“This what you wanted to see, slug?” she asked, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp.
Jabba’s laugh was a wet gurgle. “Ride, little Jedi. Show me your strength.”
Ahsoka lowered herself, her hands braced on his cold, yielding belly. The head of his cock was massive, spreading her wide immediately. She took it slowly, an inch at a time, her breath hissing through her teeth. The stretch was immense, burning, unlike anything she’d ever felt. It wasn't pleasure, not yet. It was conquest. She sank down, down, until his grotesque girth was fully sheathed inside her, her pelvis flush with his slimy skin.
She looked down, seeing her belly slightly distended. A wild laugh escaped her. Then she moved, lifting herself almost completely off before slamming back down. The friction was strange, slicked by his unnatural fluid. It felt filthy, wrong, and utterly freeing.
“Like that, you piece of shit?” she grunted, riding him harder, her breasts bouncing, her montrals trembling with the effort. Jabba’s slimy, three-fingered hands grabbed her ass, squeezing the cheeks, his grip surprisingly strong.
“Yessss… the Jedi whore rides well!”
The clearing was a symphony of obscenity. The wet slap of Chewbacca pounding into Anakin. The choked cries of Rey as Anakin pistoned into her. The slick, hungry sounds of Padmé’s tongue working Aayla’s ass. The squelching rhythm of Ahsoka impaling herself on Jabba.
Anakin felt the pressure break first. The combined sensations—the brutal fullness in his ass, the tight, clutching heat of Rey around his cock—shattered his control.
“Rey! Fuck, I’m coming!” he roared, his body locking. He erupted inside her, his release hot and violent, pumping into her in thick spurts as Chewbacca’s final, deep thrusts milked him dry.
His shout triggered Chewbacca. The Wookiee buried himself to the root with a roar that shook leaves from the trees, his own climax flooding Anakin’s depths with a scalding rush. Anakin groaned, feeling impossibly full, used, and utterly spent.
The chain reaction continued. Aayla screamed, a high, shattered sound, her back arching off the ground as Padmé’s relentless tongue pushed her over the edge. Her climax pulsed around the invading muscle, her body shuddering uncontrollably.
Ahsoka felt Jabba’s cock swell even wider inside her. A guttural, choking sound erupted from him. Then a flood of thick, lukewarm, greenish fluid began to ooze from him, not in spurts but in a constant, sluggish stream, filling her, overflowing, dripping down her thighs and onto his dais. The sensation, so alien and debasing, triggered her own orgasm. She convulsed, grinding down on him, her cries mingling with his satisfied gloats.
Silence fell, heavier than before, laden with the stench of sweat, sex, and Hutt. They disentangled, a heap of exhausted, stained bodies. Anakin slid off the log, his legs unsteady. He met Padmé’s eyes across the clearing. There was no triumph in her gaze now, only a deep, unsettling void.
Jabba’s repulsorlift hummed to life. “A productive morning, Skywalk-errr. My regards to the Council.” His dais turned, floating away, leaving a trail of crushed flowers and glistening, green slime.
The real day was here. The performance was over. As Anakin pulled on his boots, the ghost of Chewbacca’s claim and the slick memory of Jabba’s leering face mingled in his mind. He had defiled the Jedi Code, had himself been defiled, all in a silent scream of rebellion. But as the light hardened, he felt no liberation. Only a colder, more hollow space within him, waiting to be filled by something far darker than pleasure.
Only a colder, more hollow space within him, waiting to be filled by something far darker than pleasure. The comlink on his discarded belt chirped, a stark, mundane sound. He grabbed it, his voice rough. “Skywalker.”
The message crackled through. A logistical snafu, a delayed diplomatic convoy. Their extraction was postponed. Three more days. The hollow space inside Anakin didn’t fill. It yawned wider, a chasm that echoed. He lowered the comlink.
“Well?” Padmé asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“We’re stuck,” he said. The words hung there. Then a slow, wicked grin spread across his face, unhinged and real. “Three more days.”
A collective shift moved through them. The looming return to pretense evaporated. The grim aftermath transformed into possibility. Ahsoka laughed, a sharp, joyful sound. “No rules. No tomorrow.”
Rey’s eyes lit with scavenger’s greed for more. Chewbacca rumbled, approval vibrating the air. Aayla simply stretched, a satisfied smile on her blue lips. They looked at each other, then as one, their gazes turned to the trail of slime leading into the deeper forest where Jabba’s repulsorlift had faded.
They found him by a murky, thermal spring, his bulk settled in the steaming water. He watched them approach, his tongue slithering out. “Back for more, my pets?”
“We’ve got time,” Anakin said, his tone challenging. He walked into the warm water, clothes discarded again, and placed a hand on Jabba’s slippery flank. “Let’s get properly dirty.”
It started as a dares. Padmé, ever the instigator, waded over and pressed her bare mound against Jabba’s side, rubbing her clit through his coarse, algae-streaked skin. She groaned at the strange texture. “Feel that, you glorified tadpole?”
Rey followed, grinding her soaked pussy against another patch of his hide. Aayla pressed her full blue breasts against him, smearing them. Ahsoka climbed onto his partially submerged tail, sliding her slick folds along its ridge. Anakin and Chewbacca added their cocks, rubbing the stiffening lengths against the Hutt’s natural lubricant.
Jabba shuddered, a pleased gargle rising from his depths. They were a writhing, grinding constellation of flesh against his monumental form, a living, fucking ornamentation. The thermal steam mixed with the smells of sex and swamp.
“You worship well,” Jabba boomed. His huge eyes fixed on Ahsoka, who was riding the curve of his tail with particular fervor. “Such hunger. Would you like to know true consumption, little one? To be devoured?”
Ahsoka stilled. Everyone did. The rubbing stopped. She looked from Jabba’s gaping maw to Anakin. His blue eyes were dark, urging, empty. Yes, they seemed to say. Fill the void with this.
“Will I come out?” Ahsoka asked, her voice remarkably steady.
“If I wish you to,” Jabba rumbled, a playground of terrible promise.
Ahsoka’s face split into a wild grin. “Do it.”
She climbed from his tail, onto his belly, and walked toward his colossal head. His mouth, lined with rows of small, blunt teeth, opened wider. A hot, meat-scented breath washed over her. Without another glance back, she crouched and pushed herself inside, feet first.
The heat was immense, wet, muscular. The walls of his throat convulsed around her legs, pulling her in with a gentle, inexorable suction. She pushed with her hands, sliding deeper, her montrals the last to disappear. Jabba’s mouth closed with a soft, final click.
Inside, it was a pulsating, tight velvet darkness. Ahsoka was curled, the rhythmic squeeze of peristalsis massaging her entire body. She could breathe, the air thick and humid. She shifted, the walls pressing against her breasts, her ass, her clit. She began to move, to fuck the very throat that held her, a slow, full-body undulation. Jabba’s low moan vibrated through her universe.
Rey, watching the last of Ahsoka vanish, let out a shaky breath. “My turn.”
She clambered onto Jabba’s submerged belly, finding his cock half-hard beneath the water. She guided it inside her in one deep plunge, seating herself fully. The water sloshed around them as she began to ride in earnest, her hips churning, her hands braced on his slick skin.
“Aayla,” Padmé said, her voice a sensual command. She pointed to the rounded, massive expanse of Jabba’s rear, just above the waterline. “Show me how a Jedi truly serves.”
Aayla needed no further instruction. She swam over, kissed the thick, wrinkled pucker there, then pressed her face against it. She pushed, her head entering the tight, hot passage. She shoved further, her shoulders following, her arms stretching forward into the overwhelming, clenching heat. Soon, only her blue legs and ass remained visible, kicking slightly as she worked herself deeper into the Hutt’s bowels.
Chewbacca was already moving. He mounted the submerged dais behind Aayla, his thick cock finding her exposed pussy from behind. He gripped her hips and drove into her, fucking her with deep, steady strokes that pushed her whole body further into Jabba. Aayla’s muffled screams of pleasure were absorbed by the Hutt’s flesh.
Anakin pulled Padmé to him near Jabba’s side, their reflections rocking in the disturbed water. He kissed her, hard, a battle for dominance. He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, guiding him into her with a practiced ease. He fucked her standing there, the water lapping at their thighs, his thrusts urgent and possessive.
“This is what you wanted,” he growled into her ear, each word a hard piston of his hips. “This madness.”
“It’s what we are,” she gasped back, her nails scoring his back.
The clearing became a single, grotesque organism. Rey’s cries echoed as she rode Jabba’s thickening cock. Chewbacca’s roars punctuated his pounding of Aayla. Inside Jabba’s throat, Ahsoka convulsed in a silent, all-encompassing orgasm, her muscles fluttering against the living walls. Jabba himself began to shudder, a seismic event, his vast body quaking the spring.
He roared, and the sound emerged distorted, layered with Ahsoka’s muffled scream from within. His cock pulsed inside Rey, releasing another flood of that thick fluid. His anal muscles clenched wildly around Aayla’s buried form. The chain of pleasure was a closed, filthy circuit, every climax triggering the next in a wave of animal noise.
Anakin came with a shattered shout, filling Padmé, his vision whiting out as he felt the whole bizarre world convulse around him. They slumped together in the water, spent. Jabba’s mouth opened slowly, and Ahsoka slithered out, covered in luminous saliva, laughing breathlessly. Aayla withdrew herself, gasping, coated in internal slickness. Rey collapsed off Jabba’s cock into the water.
They floated in the thermal spring, tangled with each other and the Hutt, a breathing mosaic of exhaustion. The hollow space was gone, for now, packed full with something unimaginable. Anakin looked at Padmé, at Ahsoka, at the others. The rebellion was complete, and it tasted of swamp and seed and absolute, terrifying freedom. The three days stretched before them, an endless, dark playground.