The Last Inquisitor 3 (Patreon)

Breathing through flared nostrils, Hera skinned her gloves off and tucked them into a pocket inside her jacket. Even turning the gloves inside out, she still felt the heat of his cum spread into the pocket, touching and sliming her blouse as well. She zipped up her jacket. She’d just have to run them both through the wash when she got back to the Ghost.

“Sentimental value,” Kon’an repeated.

Naked and making no effort to hide himself, Kon’an sat down on his bunk. Hera’s eyes were drawn by the sheen of perspiration that adhered to him. Despite his superb physical condition, she’d made him break a sweat. Hera glowed proudly at the thought, until she realized she was taking pride in how hard she’d made the man come.

“Would you get dressed?” she snarled, taking her anger out on Kon’an.

He snorted. “I want to wash up in the staff facilities. Then I’ll put on real clothes, proper clothes, not these rags.” He kicked disdainfully at his shed jumpsuit. “And then you have yourself an Inquisitor.”

Hera nodded. That was the one silver lining of this. As cheap and dirty as she felt, at least she’d succeeded in securing his services.

But she couldn’t let it lie at that: “I want you to know that nothing like this will ever happen again. And if you tell anyone about this—”

Kon’an came up to his feet. “What’s the matter? Not proud of the job you did? You should be. I’ve fucked my way through some of the best Leisure Zones in the Core. You’d fetch top dollar at any of them.”

Hera just looked at him, training her face into calm, refusing to let him rattle her. He’d already gotten what he’d wanted. This was simply him trying to set the tone for the rest of their working relationship—codify that she be a weak, shamed Twi’lek instead of a New Republic general.

“Stang,” she sniffed at him, face set, refusing to give him an inch, and then he lunged at her.

Jammed her against the wall and kissed her. His hands on her lekku, fingers playing deep into the muscle, thumbs stroking precisely along the lines of her sensitive veins. He knew just how to touch a Twi’lek.

Hera tried not to respond but she was still feeling the aftereffects of jerking him off. She couldn’t help herself when her body was so volatile, caught between humiliation and arousal and a confused tangle of added emotions—embarrassment over her arousal, aroused by how he’d debased her.

He had her by the erogenous zones of her rounded lekku and was grinding himself against her belly, rubbing his broad chest against her tender breasts. Hera flung her hands up to his wrists, trying to pry them away from her sensitive lekku before he made them feel any more than she was already feeling.

It was futile. She was small, ineffectual, not just next to him but with the immense feelings he made well inside her. Inside, she melted. Letting out a haltering sob, she threw her arms around him and sucked on the tongue he had thrust into her mouth.

Hera came. Her wetness flooding her panties.

Her breath was ragged as Kon’an came away from her; she feared to look down and see if her orgasm was obvious through her pants. The damp warmth felt like the cum inside her jacket, against her skin.

Hera imagined herself: lipstick smeared, clothes disheveled, lekku twitching like a pair of hungry snakes. Her cheeks had to be flushed, the way they were burning, and that wasn’t even accounting for Kon’an, so smug in his nakedness.

She couldn’t do this anymore. “I’ll have the droids bring you to the showers.” And she could only hope that none of the facility’s human guards saw him and wondered why he was naked between his cell and the fresher.

She’d have to hurry, compartmentalize. Wipe the footage, the droids, make damned sure Kon’an had clothes waiting for him when his shower was done—thank the Force she’d brought a set of garments for him, knowing that Dagorrah would probably be hard-pressed to field a tailor.

And after she’d taken the Ghost off this rock and gotten them into hyperspace, then she could begin to figure out what she was feeling.

She left Kon’an. It was all too obvious where his head was.

***

His new clothes fit precisely, a tunic and trousers—and undergarments—of good enough make that he’d be able to pass for a modestly successful merchant, not have to worry about his pants ripping at the seam the first time he had to run for his life. Kon’an wondered if Hera’d gotten his measurements from somewhere in his file. He didn’t credit the Rebels with having intelligence that detailed. But then again, they had won the war.

Aboard Hera’s ship, Kon’an used the fresher and shaved, then leisurely brushed his teeth until all he felt when he tongued them was smoothly glossy enamel. It wasn’t something he’d ever have thought was a luxury before being in prison, but having to rub the fritz off his teeth with shreds from the tubeboard that the rolls of fresher film ended in… that was enough alone to get him to agree to this. But why settle when he could double down and get a Twi’lek in the bargain?

Kon’an decided to let Hera simmer a while… she’d be just looking for an excuse to vent and reassert her primacy over him. The longer he put that off, the more off-balance she’d be. Besides, she’d made this sound like a long hyperdrive jump. He’d have to take his amusement where he could; he didn’t think Hera would spring for a good 3-Dereo.

He took in the ship, reconciling its clean but well-used innards with the look he’d gotten at it on the way in. A custom Corellian job like all the Rebs loved—he guessed the benefits of being irregulars was they didn’t have to put up with standard-issue, lowest-bidder anything. Although now that they were supposedly official, you’d think they’d want to leave the trappings of insurgency far behind.

Well, Hera had adapted to government work in one respect. The rations she’d stocked his bunk with were fit for a Stormtrooper. Some still had the Imperial shield on them. For once, Kon’an was grateful he’d eaten on Dagorrah. He was full for now and could wait until he was at their destination to celebrate his freedom with a proper meal. And no matter how far the New Republic fell short of their ideals, in the end, even they couldn’t screw up a glass of cold water.

Kon’an sat on his bunk, enjoying the firmness and smoothness and thickness of the mattress compared to the one he’d had on Dagorrah—virtually a mirror of the blanket he’d covered himself with. Already things were looking up. He wasn’t tired, so he decided to meditate. Or as close to it as he ever came.

He shut his eyes and emptied his mind, trusting his subconscious to be an echo of the well-oiled machine that was his brain. Other people called that the Force, let them. The Jedi believed that a galactic energy field had a personal investment in their thoughts and feelings—well, they’d also trained the man who’d massacred half of them. Their self-awareness had never been that enviable.

Kon’an had been a Jedi once. A student, a Padawan, a child soldier. He’d felt special. Chosen. Then came the Purge. And his new special family turned out not to be as special as the Empire, already a billion-strong and growing.

Reaching down to his side, Kon’an felt the puckered crater of a scar, discernible even through his clothing. He’d killed seven Clonetroopers before the blaster bolt that would result in him having a tiny, ultraefficient bottlecap inside him instead of a kidney.

He’d survived, of course. Maybe that was his calling in the Force, because he’d never been much good at prophesizing the future or doing handstands. The Empire had been impressed with the anger he’d shown—seven dead men who he’d loved like uncles before they started shooting at him. They’d started in on his reeducation, but there was no need. He already knew the truth, whether they wanted him to or not.

Harmony was a myth. It lasted or it didn’t. The default, the natural state, was someone’s boot coming down on someone else. It’d been that way even in the Republic. The Empire just wore a bigger boot. Kon’an saw no virtue in being stomped on. If someone had to be on top of the food chain, it might as well be him.

He heard Hera’s footsteps echoing through the ship, on her way to him. Kon’an smiled to himself.

If the Force didn’t like him having his choice cut, it probably shouldn’t serve up some a big, juicy steak to him.