Chapter 4: Riding the Hutt
The steam from the spring was a burial shroud, thick and tasting of metal. They floated in it, separate islands of spent flesh. Anakin watched the viscous trail of Jabba’s release cloud the water between his legs, a visible stain. The hollow feeling was back, sharper now, a toothache in his soul. Fucking the Hutt hadn’t filled it. It had just carved the emptiness into a more precise shape.
Jabba’s gurgling snores vibrated through the pool. The performance was for him, and he was asleep. The audience was gone, but the actors remained, trapped on the stage.
Padmé waded to the mossy bank and sat, her legs still in the water, her head in her hands. The Senator was gone. The Queen was gone. What was left looked small. “What are we doing?” Her voice was muffled.
“What we want,” Ahsoka shot back, but her usual defiance was thin, stretched tight. She scrubbed at her skin with spring water, trying to remove the phantom feeling of being swallowed.
“Is it?” Padmé lifted her head, her eyes finding Anakin’s. “Or is it just the only thing left that feels like anything?”
Anakin didn’t answer. He pushed off from Jabba’s inert bulk and swam to her. He hauled himself onto the rock beside her, water streaming from his body. He took her hand, their fingers slick. “It feels real,” he said, but it sounded like a question.
“It’s a fire,” she whispered. “It consumes what you feed it, and when there’s nothing left, it consumes you.”
Rey’s voice cut through the mist from the other side of the pool. “So stop feeding it.” She was standing, water at her waist, her gaze direct. “Or don’t. But don’t pretend it’s anything but a choice.” She looked at Chewbacca, who was watching from the deeper water, his fur plastered dark. “I’m not done choosing.”
She walked toward the Wookiee, the water parting around her thighs. There was no seduction in it, only simple, stark intention. She stopped before him, placed her hands on his broad, wet chest, and looked up.
“Just us this time,” she said. “No audience. No chain. Just you. Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like I’m the only thing in this kriffing galaxy.”
Chewbacca’s low growl was one of profound understanding. He bent, wrapping his massive arms around her, and lifted her effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his waist, guiding him into her with a practiced hand. The entry was slow, deliberate, a deep, filling invasion. Rey threw her head back, a sharp cry escaping her as he seated himself fully, her body accommodating his girth.
He didn’t move her against a log or use her as part of some tableau. He simply held her, her back against the rough bark of a willow at the pool’s edge, and began to move. His thrusts were deep, rolling things that lifted her whole body with each push. It was primal, but intimate. His muzzle buried in the crook of her neck, his growls vibrating against her skin. Her cries were not for show; they were punched-out gasps, raw and private.
“Yes… like that… just like that, you big beautiful beast…”
Anakin watched, and the jealousy was a hot, sour poison in his throat. Not for Rey. For the simplicity. For the lack of pretense. Padmé’s hand tightened on his.
“We’ve forgotten how,” she murmured.
Aayla emerged from the water near them, her blue skin shimmering. She looked at the raw, earnest coupling of Rey and Chewbacca, then at Anakin and Padmé’s tangled anguish. A sly, knowing smile touched her lips. She crawled onto the bank on all fours, her back arched, her lekku dangling. She looked over her shoulder at Ahsoka, who was still scrubbing herself raw.
“Little ‘Soka,” Aayla purred. “All that freedom, and you’re sitting there looking scared of your own skin. Come here.”
Ahsoka stopped. She eyed Aayla’s presented form, the glistening slit of her pussy, the tempting pucker of her ass above it. The challenge was clear. Ahsoka stood, water shedding from her athletic frame, and walked over. She didn’t hesitate. She knelt behind Aayla, placed her hands on the Twi’lek’s hips, and leaned forward. Her tongue, pointed and pink, licked a broad stripe from Aayla’s clit all the way up to the base of her tail.
Aayla shuddered. “Mmm. Better. Use your mouth. Make me forget my name.”
Ahsoka obeyed. She buried her face between Aayla’s cheeks, her tongue spearing into her asshole with a focused intensity. It was an act of reclamation, not worship. Aayla moaned, pushing back against the invasion, her own hands clawing at the moss.
“Deeper, girl… fuck me with it…”
Anakin felt Padmé shift beside him. He turned. Her eyes were no longer hollow. They were calculating, burning with a familiar, possessive fire. She looked from Ahsoka servicing Aayla to the intense, private fucking happening in the water.
“They’ve all found their corner of this hell,” Padmé said, her voice regaining its steel. “What’s ours, Ani? What’s left that’s just for us?”
She moved then, turning to face him on the rock. She pushed him onto his back, the cool moss against his skin. She straddled him, but didn’t take him inside her. She leaned down, her damp hair curtaining their faces, her lips brushing his ear.
“You want to feel something real?” she breathed. “Then watch. And wait.”
She shifted backwards, settling her weight onto his thighs. She reached between her own legs, her fingers delving into her own wetness, spreading it over his cock, stroking him to a throbbing hardness but denying him entrance. Then she looked over at Ahsoka.
“Ahsoka,” Padmé called, her voice a clear, commanding chime.
Ahsoka pulled her face from Aayla’s ass, her chin glistening. She looked at Padmé, confused.
“Come here,” Padmé said. It was not a request.
A war flashed in Ahsoka’s eyes—defiance, curiosity, a deep, submissive pull toward the woman who had always been a kind of untouchable queen. She rose, leaving Aayla gasping, and waded through the water to the rock.
Padmé held out a hand. Ahsoka took it, and Padmé pulled her up. She guided Ahsoka to kneel on the rock beside Anakin’s head, facing away from him, toward the spring.
“Touch yourself,” Padmé instructed Ahsoka, her voice low and hypnotic. “Show him how you do it when you’re alone. When you think of him.”
Ahsoka’s breath hitched. She glanced down at Anakin, whose eyes were wide, dark pools of hunger. A slow, wicked smile touched her lips. She spread her legs, kneeling over him, her glistening pussy hovering just above his face. He could smell her musky, clean scent. She reached down, her fingers finding her own clit, and began to circle it with a practiced, tight rhythm.
“Is this what you wanted to see, Master?” she taunted, but her voice was unsteady.
Anakin couldn’t speak. He watched her fingers work, saw the swollen, pink folds glisten under her touch. He was painfully hard beneath Padmé, trapped by her weight and her will.
Padmé watched Ahsoka for a moment, then she began to move. Still denying Anakin entry, she rocked her hips, grinding her soaked slit along the length of his shaft, coating him in her wetness. The sensation was maddening.
“You watch her,” Padmé whispered to Anakin, her own breathing becoming ragged. “You watch her come. And you will not move. You will not take me until I tell you.”
Ahsoka’s motions became faster, more frantic. Her other hand reached back, gripping Anakin’s hair, not guiding him, just holding on. “Kriff… oh, fuck…”
Her orgasm built visibly, her thighs trembling, her inner muscles fluttering. She cried out, a sharp, sweet sound that wasn’t performance, and Anakin felt the warm drip of her release fall onto his chest. She collapsed forward, catching herself on her hands, panting.
“Now,” Padmé hissed.
In one fluid, powerful motion, she lifted her hips and impaled herself on Anakin’s cock, taking him to the root in a single, deep stroke. They both groaned, a duet of relief and furious need. She rode him then, not with the desperate fury of before, but with a fierce, controlled sovereignty, each downward plunge a claim.
Anakin’s hands gripped her hips, his eyes locked on her face, on the triumphant, loving, furious woman who owned him completely. This was the core. This fire. It would consume them, yes. But in this moment, as her inner muscles clenched around him, milking him toward his peak, he chose the burn.
He shouted her name, his release tearing through him, and she followed, her own cry mingling with his, her body convulsing atop his.
The echo of their climax faded into the sounds of the spring: Rey’s soft, satisfied murmurs against Chewbacca’s fur, Aayla’s lazy fingers between her own legs, Jabba’s world-shaking snores.
They lay there, tangled on the rock, the mist beginning to cool. The three days were burning down. The real world, with its wars and councils and secrets, was a phantom ship on the horizon, its boarding ramp lowering. Anakin held Padmé close, felt Ahsoka’s limp hand resting on his arm.
The emptiness was still there. But now it had a name, and he had chosen to feed it. The fire had been stoked. Soon, it would need new fuel.
Soon, it would need new fuel. The air changed. Jabba’s snoring ceased. One great, lidless eye slid open, fixing on their sated pile. A low, wet chuckle bubbled from him.
“Sweet misery,” he gurgled. “It is so… thin. Let us make it thick again.”
His words were a command that bypassed thought, hooking directly into the raw nerve he’d exposed in all of them. Chewbacca, still holding Rey, lifted his head. A low growl started in his chest, but it wasn’t protest. It was recognition. He looked at Aayla, who was now sitting up, her blue skin pebbled in the cooling air. His gaze was a summons.
Aayla stood, water sluicing from her body, and walked to him without a word. She turned, presenting her back to the Wookiee’s broad chest, and leaned against him. Chewbacca’s massive hands encircled her waist, lifting her effortlessly as Rey, still impaled on him, wrapped her legs tighter. He guided his thick cock from Rey’s clinging heat and pressed the broad head against Aayla’s waiting entrance.
“Yes,” Aayla hissed, reaching back to grip his fur.
He shoved upward, filling her in one relentless stroke. Aayla cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. Rey, facing them, watched with dark, hungry eyes. She writhed against Chewbacca’s front, grinding her clit against him, then leaned forward and captured Aayla’s mouth in a deep, desperate kiss. Chewbacca began to piston into Aayla, his powerful hips driving into her soft blue flesh, each thrust pressing Rey between them.
The slap of skin was brutal, rhythmic. “Fuck her harder,” Rey breathed against Aayla’s lips. “Make her feel it tomorrow.”
Jabba watched, his tongue slithering out. “Skywalk-errr,” he rumbled. “The hero wishes to be… consumed. Not just filled. Come.”
Anakin disentangled himself from Padmé and Ahsoka. The emptiness screamed. He waded forward, the warm water feeling like sludge. Jabba’s maw opened, a cavern of hot, damp breath. Anakin climbed onto the slippery dais of his lower belly, his cock hard and aching. He understood. He positioned himself at the edge of that fleshy pit, not to enter it, but to feed it.
He fed his cock into the darkness first. Jabba’s mouth closed around him, not with teeth, but with a powerful, rhythmic suction of soft, muscular tissue. The heat was obscene, a wet, pulsating glove that clamped down and pulled greedily. Anakin groaned, his knees buckling.
“Ahsoka,” he grunted, looking back, his eyes glazed.
She was there in an instant, her own need a mirror to his. She climbed up behind him, pressing her front to his back. She reached around, guiding herself onto him, sinking down onto his cock even as Jabba sucked at its tip. The double sensation was mind-breaking. Ahsoka fucked him with sharp, driving lifts of her hips, her inner muscles fluttering around his shaft, while Jabba’s throat milked the head.
“Oh, fuck, Anakin… it’s so deep…” she chanted, her nails digging into his stomach.
Padmé watched from the rock. A cold, regal fury settled over her features. She slid into the water and moved toward Jabba’s head. She didn’t ask. She simply climbed, finding purchase on the rough folds of his neck. She straddled his face, her thighs framing the vast, bloated features. She lowered her hips, placing her soaked cunt directly over his gaping mouth.
“You want to consume?” she said, her voice icy steel. “Then swallow.”
She ground herself down. Jabba’s tongue, thick and strong, emerged and speared into her without finesse. It fucked into her hole, stabbing deep, then swept up to circle her clit with brutal efficiency. Padmé gasped, her back arching, her hands fisting in her own hair. She rode his face with a ruthless, commanding rhythm, fucking herself on that massive tongue, moans tearing from her throat.
“Yes… you filthy beast… lick me clean!”
The clearing dissolved into a symphony of raw function. Chewbacca’s relentless pounding into Aayla, now joined by Rey’s mouth on Aayla’s breasts, her fingers pinching and pulling at blue nipples. The wet, sucking noises from Jabba’s mouth as he devoured Anakin’s cock while Ahsoka rode him. The slick, slobbering sounds of Padmé grinding herself to climax on the Hutt’s face.
Anakin felt the pressure coil, a fusion of physical bliss and psychic revulsion that was too potent to contain. “Ahsoka… I’m gonna…!”
“Do it!” she screamed, slamming down onto him.
His orgasm roared through him, ripped out by Jabba’s sucking mouth and Ahsoka’s clenching channel. Jabba swallowed in greedy gulps, his throat working. Ahsoka followed, her body seizing around him, a silent scream etched on her face as she came.
Padmé’s climax was a shout of pure dominance. She ground down hard, shuddering, her juices flooding over Jabba’s tongue. He drank it down with a satisfied gurgle.
Chewbacca, driven by the cacophony, roared his finish, his seed pumping into Aayla in hot pulses. Rey, feeling him throb, cried out as her own release hit, her body trembling against them.
They collapsed. Aayla slid off Chewbacca’s softening cock, a trail of cum leaking down her thigh. Ahsoka fell away from Anakin, who pulled himself, spent and slick with saliva, from Jabba’s mouth. Padmé climbed down from the Hutt’s face, her legs unsteady.
Silence, heavy and complete, fell. Jabba’s eye closed. The audience was sated. The actors were hollowed-out shells. Anakin looked at his hands, then at Padmé. The fire had been fed. It burned brighter, hotter, and more desperate. It had seen what it could have. The fuel was no longer just pleasure or rebellion. It was every boundary left, every fragile thread of self waiting to be torched.