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Description

A young bounty huntress learns to her cost that Jabba the Hutt is a fickle employer…

Cerys is an OC. Art adapted from Star Wars and Conan comics.

Every time that Cerys entered the palace, she told herself it would be the last. But the slug paid well.

He leered at her as she strode across the floor towards the throne, the dim light glinting from the metallic buckles of her dark flightsuit and catching at her lustrous black hair. Cerys met his gaze levelly.

‘I’m here for the bounty on Zango Marr,’ she said, and held up the shrivelled, mummified hand which served as proof.

‘You always deliver, my dear,’ Jabba chuckled. ‘Though I’d have paid extra to hear Zango beg for his life in the beast pit.’

‘And I’d have spent another month waiting for the right moment to grab him,’ said Cerys. ‘I know what my time’s worth. I had a shot and I took it.’

‘Pay the lady,’ said Jabba to his majordomo, and smirked down at her. ‘I hope your precious time extends to spending an evening with us? Mili will be dancing.'

A sad-faced, yellow-skinned Twi’lek girl perched on the throne beside him. Her eyes barely flickered as the crime-lord rattled her leash. Cerys didn’t look at her; she didn’t want to image the horrid existence of one of the old slug’s pets.

‘I’ll consider it,’ she said. ‘Once I’ve counted the money.’

There was no real option but to stay – it would take most of the night to get back to Mos Eisley, and the Dune Sea was dangerous for a lone speeder at the best of times. Cerys would tolerate the Hutt’s hospitality for a night, take one of the guest rooms, and head out at first light.

Soon she sat in a palace alcove, counting credits. It was a good haul, even without the bonus for bringing Zango in alive, and Cerys allowed herself to relex a little. A drink or two would do no harm. By now the evening festivities had begun, and dancers were starting to perform, among them Jabba’s wretched personal slave.

The girls wore next-to-nothing and the crowd they entertained was raucous. Cerys was one of the few free women in the throne-room, and she knew it was only her reputation that kept the more lecherous of the courtiers away. But the band were on form; a cup of wine later and she was half-enjoying the show.

‘Haven’t seen you around lately, Cer,’ said an old colleague.

‘There are other clients, Annik,’ said Serys, and motioned him to join her in the alcove. The green-skinned mercenary did so with a wink. She didn’t like him much, but it was better than drinking alone. ‘Not that you’d know it – I hear you’re a palace fixture these days.’

‘I’m getting older,’ said Annik. ‘And the boss always throws a good party.’

‘I can tell,’ said Cerys, casting a meaningful look at the throne. Jabba was horribly drunk, his squat neckless head lolling as he ogled his dancing-girl and chuckled at the purile antics of his monkey-lizard jester. 500 years older than I am, Cerys thought – and amused by something a discerning child would turn their nose up at.

‘You don’t get tired of it?’ she asked. ‘You must have made a fortune in the Achon System – not tempted to retire?’

‘Where else would I get a show like this?’ Annik said. A commotion had arisen - Jabba was tussling with the yellow-skinned girl before the throne, hauling her to-and-fro on the leash. Cerys heard the girl’s voice raise – heard the pleading tone – and then the shout became a shriek as the floor opened beneath the luckless dancer and she went tumbling into the pit.

Courtiers rushed to the grated floor to watch. Annik was among them. Cerys rose after a moment and followed, sick curiosity compelling her. The girl was rising unsteadily in the shadowy pit below the dancefloor. Cerys met her eyes for a moment – and then the gate rose, and the monster within came out.

‘Not much of a fight,’ said Annik, once it was done. Cerys shrugged as she settled back in the alcove.

‘Is it ever?’ she asked. ‘At least His Excellency is enjoying himself.’

Jabba was shaking with mirth, laughing even as he stuffed a paddy-frog into his maw. Bits of offal flew as he spoke through a full-mouth.

‘Bring me a replacement,’ he said. Cerys looked away with a tut of distaste. Some poor slave-girl had been picked out and would shortly be shackled to the throne, likely to spend the rest of her days yanked to and fro according to the old Hutt’s whim. She didn’t need to watch the spectacle.

‘Her,’ said Jabba.

The palace was suddenly quiet. Cerys looked up – and realised, with a sudden lurch of horror, that Jabba was pointing at her. She cast about, sure that there must be some mistake – but there was no servant girl nearby, at whom the slug might be pointing instead. Cerys turned to Annik, hoping to see him laughing, revealing it as a cruel joke. But the mercenary had stepped swiftly away from her, and in his place came hurrying guards.

Resistance woud have been hopeless in any case – but Cerys was too stunned to offer any. Her arms were pinned, and the pig-guards thrust her forward, and as she was pushed stumbling across the dance-floor she heard the first jeers from the crowd. Her mind raced as she tried to imagine the reason for this – some unspoken palace rule she had transgressed, some unsettled score from long ago.

‘Jabba!’ she said, fighting not to panic. ‘What’s the meaning of this? I brought you your bounty – the price was agreed.’

The Hutt leered down at her.

‘My dear,’ he said. ‘You’re quite right. You’re welcome to keep the bounty you’ve earned – though soon you may not have pockets to keep it in.’

His cronies laughed. Cerys glared at them.

‘What right have you to do this?’ she demanded. Jabba chuckled.

‘What strength do you have to stop me?’ he asked, and held out his stub arms into them. The guards thrust her forward and he caught her, and pulled her close. There was surprising strength in his grip. His huge gross mouth parted; the fetid stench struck Cerys’ like a physical blow and she gasped and thought to turn from him.

‘You’ll regret this!’ she said. ‘The Bounty Hunters’ Guild -’

‘- takes too many credits from me to care,’ said Jabba. The very tip of his tongue dabbed teasingly at her cheek and she squirmed in vain to escape it. ‘I’m afraid, little Cerys, that they won’t miss you much.’

His breath reeked of strong alcohol. Spittle sprayed from his mouth. His hands were clammy. Cerys felt her head spin.

‘But what have I done!’ she cried in despair. ‘I’ve always delivered - ’

‘You have,’ said the Hutt, with another chuckle. ‘But I’ve been wanting to do this for years. Why wait for you to slip up? If it’s any consolation – ’ he tore at her flightsuit, ripping it open, and gazing hungrily at the pale flesh within – ‘You were very good.’

The full length of his tongue hit Cerys as she processed this. Hot, wet, drenched in thick slime – it drove everything but disgust from her mind as he licked her. She writhed in his embrace. At last he had tasted enough, and held her at arms’ length. Cerys gasped. Slime dripped from her lovely face – it trickled like a green river down her neck, into the ripped flightsuit and the deep valley between her breasts. Jabba took a moment to appraise her, and sighed with satisfation.

‘Take her to the dancer’s pit,’ he said. ‘Have her dressed properly before we collar her.’

Every time that Cerys entered the palace, she told herself it would be the last. And now, looking into the triumphant eyes of her new owner, she realised that this time she had been right...

Description

A young bounty huntress learns to her cost that Jabba the Hutt is a fickle employer…

Cerys is an OC. Art adapted from Star Wars and Conan comics.

Every time that Cerys entered the palace, she told herself it would be the last. But the slug paid well.

He leered at her as she strode across the floor towards the throne, the dim light glinting from the metallic buckles of her dark flightsuit and catching at her lustrous black hair. Cerys met his gaze levelly.

‘I’m here for the bounty on Zango Marr,’ she said, and held up the shrivelled, mummified hand which served as proof.

‘You always deliver, my dear,’ Jabba chuckled. ‘Though I’d have paid extra to hear Zango beg for his life in the beast pit.’

‘And I’d have spent another month waiting for the right moment to grab him,’ said Cerys. ‘I know what my time’s worth. I had a shot and I took it.’

‘Pay the lady,’ said Jabba to his majordomo, and smirked down at her. ‘I hope your precious time extends to spending an evening with us? Mili will be dancing.'

A sad-faced, yellow-skinned Twi’lek girl perched on the throne beside him. Her eyes barely flickered as the crime-lord rattled her leash. Cerys didn’t look at her; she didn’t want to image the horrid existence of one of the old slug’s pets.

‘I’ll consider it,’ she said. ‘Once I’ve counted the money.’

There was no real option but to stay – it would take most of the night to get back to Mos Eisley, and the Dune Sea was dangerous for a lone speeder at the best of times. Cerys would tolerate the Hutt’s hospitality for a night, take one of the guest rooms, and head out at first light.

Soon she sat in a palace alcove, counting credits. It was a good haul, even without the bonus for bringing Zango in alive, and Cerys allowed herself to relex a little. A drink or two would do no harm. By now the evening festivities had begun, and dancers were starting to perform, among them Jabba’s wretched personal slave.

The girls wore next-to-nothing and the crowd they entertained was raucous. Cerys was one of the few free women in the throne-room, and she knew it was only her reputation that kept the more lecherous of the courtiers away. But the band were on form; a cup of wine later and she was half-enjoying the show.

‘Haven’t seen you around lately, Cer,’ said an old colleague.

‘There are other clients, Annik,’ said Serys, and motioned him to join her in the alcove. The green-skinned mercenary did so with a wink. She didn’t like him much, but it was better than drinking alone. ‘Not that you’d know it – I hear you’re a palace fixture these days.’

‘I’m getting older,’ said Annik. ‘And the boss always throws a good party.’

‘I can tell,’ said Cerys, casting a meaningful look at the throne. Jabba was horribly drunk, his squat neckless head lolling as he ogled his dancing-girl and chuckled at the purile antics of his monkey-lizard jester. 500 years older than I am, Cerys thought – and amused by something a discerning child would turn their nose up at.

‘You don’t get tired of it?’ she asked. ‘You must have made a fortune in the Achon System – not tempted to retire?’

‘Where else would I get a show like this?’ Annik said. A commotion had arisen - Jabba was tussling with the yellow-skinned girl before the throne, hauling her to-and-fro on the leash. Cerys heard the girl’s voice raise – heard the pleading tone – and then the shout became a shriek as the floor opened beneath the luckless dancer and she went tumbling into the pit.

Courtiers rushed to the grated floor to watch. Annik was among them. Cerys rose after a moment and followed, sick curiosity compelling her. The girl was rising unsteadily in the shadowy pit below the dancefloor. Cerys met her eyes for a moment – and then the gate rose, and the monster within came out.

‘Not much of a fight,’ said Annik, once it was done. Cerys shrugged as she settled back in the alcove.

‘Is it ever?’ she asked. ‘At least His Excellency is enjoying himself.’

Jabba was shaking with mirth, laughing even as he stuffed a paddy-frog into his maw. Bits of offal flew as he spoke through a full-mouth.

‘Bring me a replacement,’ he said. Cerys looked away with a tut of distaste. Some poor slave-girl had been picked out and would shortly be shackled to the throne, likely to spend the rest of her days yanked to and fro according to the old Hutt’s whim. She didn’t need to watch the spectacle.

‘Her,’ said Jabba.

The palace was suddenly quiet. Cerys looked up – and realised, with a sudden lurch of horror, that Jabba was pointing at her. She cast about, sure that there must be some mistake – but there was no servant girl nearby, at whom the slug might be pointing instead. Cerys turned to Annik, hoping to see him laughing, revealing it as a cruel joke. But the mercenary had stepped swiftly away from her, and in his place came hurrying guards.

Resistance woud have been hopeless in any case – but Cerys was too stunned to offer any. Her arms were pinned, and the pig-guards thrust her forward, and as she was pushed stumbling across the dance-floor she heard the first jeers from the crowd. Her mind raced as she tried to imagine the reason for this – some unspoken palace rule she had transgressed, some unsettled score from long ago.

‘Jabba!’ she said, fighting not to panic. ‘What’s the meaning of this? I brought you your bounty – the price was agreed.’

The Hutt leered down at her.

‘My dear,’ he said. ‘You’re quite right. You’re welcome to keep the bounty you’ve earned – though soon you may not have pockets to keep it in.’

His cronies laughed. Cerys glared at them.

‘What right have you to do this?’ she demanded. Jabba chuckled.

‘What strength do you have to stop me?’ he asked, and held out his stub arms into them. The guards thrust her forward and he caught her, and pulled her close. There was surprising strength in his grip. His huge gross mouth parted; the fetid stench struck Cerys’ like a physical blow and she gasped and thought to turn from him.

‘You’ll regret this!’ she said. ‘The Bounty Hunters’ Guild -’

‘- takes too many credits from me to care,’ said Jabba. The very tip of his tongue dabbed teasingly at her cheek and she squirmed in vain to escape it. ‘I’m afraid, little Cerys, that they won’t miss you much.’

His breath reeked of strong alcohol. Spittle sprayed from his mouth. His hands were clammy. Cerys felt her head spin.

‘But what have I done!’ she cried in despair. ‘I’ve always delivered - ’

‘You have,’ said the Hutt, with another chuckle. ‘But I’ve been wanting to do this for years. Why wait for you to slip up? If it’s any consolation – ’ he tore at her flightsuit, ripping it open, and gazing hungrily at the pale flesh within – ‘You were very good.’

The full length of his tongue hit Cerys as she processed this. Hot, wet, drenched in thick slime – it drove everything but disgust from her mind as he licked her. She writhed in his embrace. At last he had tasted enough, and held her at arms’ length. Cerys gasped. Slime dripped from her lovely face – it trickled like a green river down her neck, into the ripped flightsuit and the deep valley between her breasts. Jabba took a moment to appraise her, and sighed with satisfation.

‘Take her to the dancer’s pit,’ he said. ‘Have her dressed properly before we collar her.’

Every time that Cerys entered the palace, she told herself it would be the last. And now, looking into the triumphant eyes of her new owner, she realised that this time she had been right...