Chapter Text
“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says disinterestedly, sliding the pile of neatly stacked credits into his waiting palm. “Please extend my gratitude to Boss Set’ki for his generous and timely payment.”
You watch him tuck the metallic ingots into one of the leather pouches sewn to his belt—right between the buckle and a string of explosive charges. There’s a dull thunk when the butt of his rifle knocks against the table’s edge as he turns to leave.
It's quite the arsenal. The bounty hunter certainly cast an imposing figure.
It’s a miracle those shoulders made it through the hatch.
You’d heard rumors from the other girls at Dark Garden about the fearsome Mandalorian who visited Mistress Anassa. This just happened to be one of those delightful twists gifted by the universe, where the real thing exceeds expectations.
He's terrifying. And sexy as hell.
That first moment when you’d opened the door to see him standing there in full plate Beskar was a shock to the senses. Had you met him earlier in your career, that alone might have reduced you to a stream of inane babbling.
Good thing you’ve had a lot of practice controlling your expression—the demands of professional decorum, after all. It would ruin your Mistress’s reputation if you started drooling over the customers.
The armor suited him. It accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his forearms, and his powerfully muscular thighs. The belt slung low around his tapered waist, and the quilted canvas hinted at the taut abdominals concealed beneath.
All the adrenaline surging through your body at the sight of his weaponry had immediately transformed to excitement, raw and primal.
This man made you feel…
Sweet gods, divine and merciful.
“Of course,” you smile, leaning forward to place your elbows over the polished tabletop so that your breasts rise enticingly. Lacing your fingers together, you gently rest your chin atop your knuckles. “We will happily deliver the Mandalorian’s compliments to our master.”
The Beskar gleams in the candlelight despite an ashy layer of soot. From the state of him, he might have come straight from the lower levels where he’d tracked his quarry. Your eyes linger over the blood splattered across his helmet, sending a shiver of panic down your spine. What sort of violence had this man committed mere hours ago?
Arousal surges within you—fear and wanting intertwined.
The gore and grime are a stark contrast to the lush surroundings. Draped in silk tapestries, with thick woolen rugs and brocade pillows, your shuttle interior was designed to be a sanctuary from the vulgar world outside.
But you suspect the Mandalorian wrapped brutality around him as tightly as the cloak hanging from his neck. It would take a woman of considerable charm to remove either.
Which is why Anassa chose you.
“It is our honor to serve, Master Set’ki,” you reply, rising artfully from your chair and gesturing toward the lounge where you’ve laid out a modest tea service. “And our duty to please.”
The Mandalorian pauses midstep on his way to the door.
“Excuse me?” he asks, curiosity piqued.
Shrugging out of your robe, the silken fabric pools at your feet. You kneel onto the plush carpet before pulling back, sitting on your heels, and reaching for the enameled pot. “Our master thought the Mandalorian would enjoy some companionship. A chance to indulge in softer luxuries before he returns to the Outer Rim.”
The Mandalorian’s helmet gives away nothing, but you can feel his eyes tracing over you.
Looking up at him through dark lashes, you explain, “He extends the use of this ship—and his servant—to you, for the night.”
Despite the layers of cloth and metal, when he folds his arms across his chest, you see the muscles in his back ripple. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted.
And right now, he’s imagining taking you.
The fear is still there, but by now, it’s sharpened to anticipation so intense that it aches.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says firmly. Yet, his words did not match his actions. Instead of continuing on his path toward the door, he turns to face you, uncrossing his arms to hold them at his sides.
Is he simply nervous? Sometimes, warriors hardened on the battlefield liked to yield dominance in the bedroom. Maybe you should try throwing him against a wall and climbing him like a tree.
No. If submission were his preference, Anassa would have chosen someone else—Katlin with her barbed whips or Batya with her cruel tongue.
You need to coax him without pushing. The subtle art of persuasion.
Let’s start with coy seduction.
Turning to look at him from over your shoulder, you toss your hair just so, sending shimmering waves down your back. You twist gracefully at the waist until your bodice gapes, revealing the lush contours of your body.
“Think of it as a reward,” your voice is supple as the velvet cushions surrounding you on the floor. “Our only desire is the Mandalorian’s comfort and pleasure.”
With that, you pour the tea and walk over to him, proffering a cup.
“That is indeed generous,” the Mandalorian cocks his head. “But I usually find more comfort in solitude.”
Yet—again, he makes no attempt to leave, accepting the cup from your hand graciously. Worn leather caresses your skin as your fingers brush against each other, reaching around the warm porcelain. The jaw of his helmet lifts, and you catch a glimpse of bronze skin and coarse black hair while he raises the cup to his lips.
Surprisingly full lips.
What did he mean by offering resistance? Was this a challenge? Some test of your professional acumen?
A skilled courtesan is, above all else, a student of human nature and hidden desires. She must know what her clients want before they speak the words. Before they know it themselves. This Mandalorian wanted to be…tempted.
Timidity would yield nothing.
You arch an eyebrow, “We have never known a man who preferred solitude to our company.” Then, you stare directly into the jet-black surface of his helmet’s visor. Meeting his gaze, you place a delicate hand over his chest plate and fill your voice with honey, “Let tonight be a rare exception to the usual.”
The Beskar feels cool against your palm and the pads of your fingertips. You hadn’t realized how flushed you’d become with your heart beating this fast. The insistent yearning between your thighs matches each pulse coursing through your veins.
“We are here to satisfy. Whatever the Mandalorian desires is his for the taking.”
While the bounty hunter remains stubbornly silent, you can hear his breathing grow shallow through the modulator.
Having made your supplication, you draw back. “If it is tranquility the Mandalorian desires, perhaps we could play the valachord or sing for him?”
“Sing?” he huffs, sounding amused. It’s funny, hearing the smirk on his lips.
Well, at least he’s not completely immune to charm.
“Pleasure takes many forms,” you continue, flashing him a demure smile. “As such, we courtesans are skilled in many arts.”
You decide to drop the formality and seek a connection with him: “I’ve been told my voice is exceedingly lovely. And I know all the Twelve Ballads of Kiergaard.”
You shift onto the edge of a thick cushion to pour yourself some tea. When you raise the cup to your lips, the look of elegant femininity slips—just for a moment, so he can see the earnest hunger filling your gaze. You fix him with your most smoldering stare, “Though I can certainly think of other ways to please you with my mouth.”
The tea tastes bitter on your tongue, but you hardly notice, waiting for his reaction.
The Mandalorian says nothing as he pulls the rifle over his head, settling it against the door frame. He walks over in a slow saunter that makes his hips dip and sway. Slowly, he extends his hand to take your face in his leather fingers, lifting up your chin.
“You want me to fuck your mouth?”
Your breath catches in your throat. A wave of arousal courses through your body, emanating from your clenching belly until it ripples over every surface of your skin, pinching your nipples.
“If the Mandalorian—” but he cuts off whatever beguiling line you intended.
“I thought this was about what I wanted?” he demands.
Suddenly, you’re too flustered to speak, confused by the sudden shift in dynamic. All his polite reticence had been an act. He was done testing you. He wanted to assert dominance.
In answer, you lower your gaze.
“That’s right,” he says coolly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re remembering what you’re for.” The Mandalorian takes the cup from your hands and tosses it aside. “There’s no more need to talk. Don’t open your mouth unless I tell you.”
Then he reaches down to his belt and unbuckles it.
And to think, you worried he’d be too repressed to enjoy himself. This is going to be so good.
“You’re here to give me whatever I want?” he asks, his tone gruff and intimidating as he removes the bandolier.
You don’t look up, just nod.
He laughs, “I’m glad we understand each other.”
With your gaze locked on the floor, you watch the tread of his boots make their way to a lacquer armchair in the corner of the room. His knees splay wide as he leans back in his seat. “Answer my question.”
“Whatever the Mandalorian desires, I will give him.”
“Because tonight, your body is for me.”
It’s not a question, but you find yourself nodding in confirmation.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
You answer truthfully. “That you’re a dangerous man, and I should do my best to please you.”
“Good,” he says in a rough whisper. “But don’t worry. I don’t intend to harm you. I’m not the kind of man who breaks his toys.”
He runs a leathered thumb slowly across the seam of the Beskar plate strapped to his thigh, a restrained movement that belies his desire…and impatience. The subtle gesture makes your breath catch, as though that thumb had brushed your own skin instead of cold Beskar.
So there are chinks in the Mandalorian’s armor. He wants this.
Every measured movement, every controlled silence—it all unraveled for a moment in that touch, and the knowledge burns through you like a wildfire.
“What do you know about Mandalorian customs?”
When you hesitate, he adds, “You can answer.”
“I know that it’s a sacrilege to look upon your face. That to touch your helmet, even by accident, is to forfeit my life.”
“Then you’ll understand why I need to tie you down.”
At that, your head snaps up to look at him.
“Or tie you up. I haven’t decided yet.”
Part of you is terrified by the thought of being captive to this man for hours, splayed wide and helpless. The other part of you wishes he’d do it this second.
“You can undress while I make up my mind.”
Obeying his command, you stand and reach behind you for the lacings of your bodice.
This, at least, is an art in which you can make your Mistress proud. The trick is to envision that it’s a private ritual, something deeply intimate. That you always loosen the silken knots this slowly. That each row of the lacings must be pulled free, one—by—one.
You lift your elbows so that he glimpses the soft curves of your breasts as you move. Slip your right arm from its fitted sleeve, then the left, until you’re certain the dress will fall, cascading over your body like waves caressing the shore.
Only then do you turn, rolling your hips and then your shoulders, displaying your nakedness, before you finally look over to where he’s sitting, as though you’d forgotten anyone was watching.
At some point during your performance, the Mandalorian had leaned forward, resting his elbows atop his thighs, his hands clasped together in wrapt attention.
“That was beautifully done,” he murmurs. “You may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Your heart swells, hearing his admiration—perhaps because it sounds so genuine. Suddenly, all you can think about is how best to please him, the things you’ll do with your lips and fingers.
“Tell me. Have you studied the Tal’jurae…or just the valachord?”
In response to his question, you sink into the Supplicant’s Position—the first of the Two and Twenty Poses. It was the essence of Tal’jurae. Knees parted, palms upturned, the body said what words could not: I have no will but yours. I exist only to please.
As you sit back onto your heels, ankles crossed, thighs spread wide, you recall Mistress Anassa’s words: “Ta’jira has no will of her own. She obeys without question, without hesitation. Her joy is her service. Her bondage is her belonging.”
You spine lengthens, your shoulders pull back, your gaze drops to the floor. From where you kneel, the scuffed leather of his boots looms inches from your knees, caked with dust and dried blood from some nameless world.
“Beautiful,” he mutters, almost to himself, modulated breath quickening. “That’s how I want you.”
You let out the tiniest, imperceptible breath. The meaning of a ta’jira's life is to serve and please her master completely, with her “whole being, with her whole body, with her whole heart and soul.” The failure to perform obedience, or even the briefest hesitation, is to invite swift punishment.
“I understand the Hapan courtesans from Dark Garden are the most expensive, the most prized companions in all of Coruscant.” The hunter’s voice sinks into a low, husky rasp as he says, “But tonight, I’m not interested in your talents, though I’m sure you have many. This is about what I want to do to you.”
It’s just as well he demanded your silence because you can’t speak.
“Tonight your body is for me.”
You know he can see you breathing, shallow and fast, from the rise and fall of your breasts. See your pulse thundering against your throat. He’s feeding off your fear, you realize. That’s why he keeps trying to catch you off guard like this. The Mandalorian wanted to shatter your artful calm and see something raw and real in your eyes.
You should be afraid—and you are—but you’ve never been more turned on.
The silence stretches, heavy as a hand clutching at the back of your neck. He doesn’t move at first. Just breathes. The vocoder hisses faintly with each inhale, modulated and strange compared to the wild hammering of your own pulse.
You know the discipline required of ta’jira—the stillness and composure. So you remain naked, kneeling, shoulders squared, thighs parted in perfect display.
You have no idea how harshly a Mandalorian punishes laxity. Would it be with the edge of cruelty—or the edge of something far more intoxicating?
Your thighs begin to tremble despite your training.
Then—boots shift against the rug. He rises from the armchair, a wall of Beskar unfolding before you, and begins to circle. His movements are soundless but for the muted creak of leather and the scrape of plates as they shift against one another. Each slow step around your body feels like an orbit. Like a predator measuring—deciding where to strike. You kneel at the center of his gravity, awaiting his judgment.
At last, he stops. A gloved hand lifts—two fingers, precise, deliberate—tilting your chin upward.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “I’m very honored to claim you as my reward.”
Relief cuts through you so sharply your lungs seize with it. You’ve pleased him. The words land like a brand, not only permission but recognition. The pride that blooms in your chest is warm enough to sear.
He crouches, cloth and leather straining at the seams as he lowers himself. One knee sinks into the rug beside you. From this close, he looms, all plates and weapons and bulk. Heat radiates off his body through the flight suit, yet every edge is encased in cold steel. The contrast is dizzying. You, utterly naked, hair spilling down your back in loose waves. While he, fully armored, is faceless and unreachable.
He doesn’t speak. Not to explain. Not to ask. He simply reaches for the discarded sash of your robe, a coil of silk now dangling from his grip, and begins to tie.
The gloves remain. His movements are efficient—the precision of a man accustomed to securing his quarry, not lovers. Yet there is something sacred in the way he works. You’ve seen knots tied a hundred times before, artful bindings for display, but never like this.
Each pass of silk slides with a faint shhhft over your skin, smooth and soothing. The fabric winds across your thighs, your ankles, neat lines pulled taut with geometric symmetry, echoing the ridged grooves carved into his armor.
Shhhft. Tug. Hitch. Shhhft. Tug. Cinch.
The sound imprints itself onto you. Each knot is a small testament to his control. Each pass of silk is an oath.
You are mine to hold, mine to keep.
The pressure is exacting—firm enough to bind you utterly, and yet gentle enough to avoid pain. It is restraint without cruelty, discipline without punishment. The same silk that was once your weapon—luxury, decadence, allure—fabric meant to seduce. In his hands, it has become something else entirely.
He redefines beauty into danger.
When your ankles are bound to the backs of your thighs, locking you into immobility, he pauses.
His visor lowers.
One hand rises, unhurried, hovering for a breath before pinching at the tips of his fingers.
You watch as he works the leather loose, one finger at a time. The faint creak of it sounds impossibly loud in the hush between you, each tug peeling the glove back from his skin. First the knuckles, then the thick cords of his fingers, until at last the glove slips free with a muted sigh of leather.
It shocks you more than the binding itself.
His hand is broad, the skin bronzed and thickened with calluses, the creases of his knuckles etched from use. Nails trimmed clean. A warrior’s hand, not elegant, not soft—but startlingly human. The only part of him revealed.
You can’t stop yourself from staring at it, drinking in this rare intimacy.
It shouldn’t matter, this small concession of skin. Not when every other inch of him is steel and leather. But the sight is somehow more arousing than a glimpse of his cock. This is him. Proof that he’s still human underneath that armor. Somehow, it feels more stark than nakedness.
He tucks the glove into his belt, then takes up the sash again. The silk winds under his fingers in looping arcs, each turn deliberate, every twist circling tighter until the fibers compress into an intricate bloom. The weave is tight and compact—the size of a rosebud, beautiful in its symmetry.
Once the knot is tied, he threads the sash slowly between your thighs. You inhale sharply as he pulls the fabric taut, securing the thick knot into place, tugging until it nestles snug and merciless against your clit. Every shift, every minor adjustment of your weight on your heels pulls at you. Stimulating. Exacting and unrelenting.
Through the modulator you hear it. The faint change in his breathing.
His only tell.
Then his fingers brush. Just once. A deft stroke, callused knuckles dragging in a single line between your folds, coarse against tender flesh. He exhales sharply upon discovering how wet you are for him already.
The sound—the sensation rips through you, sudden and shivering. Your back bows before you can stop it.
He murmurs something then—low and guttural, in a language you don’t know. Mando’a, you’d guess. The cadence is reverent, almost like prayer. Flattened through the vocoder, it emerges as a growl that vibrates down your spine.
The sash tugs sharply once, the knot pressing harder, and your body convulses with the wave of arousal that ricochets outward from your molten core.
“I’m going to make you come,” he says, voice rough and certain. “Then you’ll sing for me, senaar’ika.”
Senaar’ika. Little bird.
The endearment lands with a heat so fierce your whole body flushes.
He stands. You remain where you are—kneeling, bound, trembling, your hair spilling forward in disheveled waves. He towers above you, still untouched, still immaculate.
One of the Three Princesses of the Dark Garden, undone by nothing more than a strip of fabric and a single bare hand.
You should be afraid. Any sane woman would be. And yet what fills you instead is something perilously close to trust. You sense it in his precision, in the ritualistic care of each knot. This isn’t just dominance. He sees you as something rare, something treasured.
And you know—without him saying it—that he is a man who keeps his promises.
He has no intention of breaking you.
Your thighs already tingle from the silk biting faintly into your skin. Each knot he tied still hums like a current, holding you open and helpless. He hasn’t touched you beyond that single deft brush of his fingers, but anticipation has stripped you raw.
Your lower body is completely immovable—ankles lashed to thighs, hips cinched—but he’s left your mouth free, your hands unbound. That omission feels deliberate, like another trap. The freedom to reach, to speak, to beg if you must.
He stands before you, armored and immovable. Beskar gleams in the low light, the folds of his flightsuit absorbing the shadows. From the floor, he looks impossibly tall, a column of metal and dark cloth. His heavy cloak sways only when he breathes.
The silence stretches, dense and hot as breath against your skin. The Supplicant’s Pose demands your eyes on the floor, but you can’t stop yourself—you glance up. You catch the slow rise and fall of his pauldrons as he inhales. Through the modulator, the sound is faint, mechanical, but you can feel the hitch.
He’s looking at you.
But…he doesn’t correct you.
Instead, his bare hand lifts between you. No words, no signal. Just the sudden presence of warm skin against cool air.
The visor tilts down, unblinking and impassive. The hand itself hovers close enough for you to smell him. Leather and metal. And the faint musk of sweat. He’s growing heated.
Then—
His fingers touch your face.
Callused pads slide from jaw to cheek, gliding up to the edge of your temple. His skin is thick but surprisingly soft, heat bleeding into you wherever he presses his fingertips. You lean into that warmth without thinking, greedy for the tenderness. He must experience very little physical intimacy.
The helmet is terrifying. The hand is delicate. The dissonance makes your breath stutter.
His thumb begins to trace the shape of your mouth. Brushing over your lips. Once. Twice. Over and over. Each pass leaves you more open, more aware of how fast you’re breathing.
Then—without warning—he presses two fingers lightly between your lips. Again—no explanation. Just command in the gesture.
You part them obediently, accepting him. His skin is cooler than you expected, salt and heat lingering from the glove, a faint tang of leather tannins clinging to his knuckles.
The fingers rest on your tongue for a long moment. Testing texture. Heat. The pads of his fingertips drag lightly against the wet muscle.
He inhales sharply. And now you’re certain.
That’s his tell.
You begin to move your tongue—slowly at first, caressing and teasing, tracing the ridges of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers. You hollow your cheeks to draw him in deeper, stroke the flat of your tongue against the base of his fingers, knowing what image you’re putting in his head.
Saliva coats him quickly, slicking his fingers, dripping down your chin. It runs warm along your throat, pools between your collarbones. The mess grounds the intimacy in something raw and unpolished while he remains pristine in his armor.
A flicker of pride blooms in your chest at the sound of his breathing—hitched now, modulated but unmistakable. You’ve passed some unspoken test.
Without warning, he pushes deeper. His fingers brush your soft palate, making you gag. He doesn’t withdraw immediately. He holds you there, measuring.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
Your carefully trained poise falters—knees quivering, shoulders hunching the smallest fraction as your body fights the intrusion. Tiny betrayals of your composure under his increased force.
But you do as he commands and stare directly into the dark, jet black slash of his helmet.
Through the vocoder, his breathing shifts—shallow, almost imperceptibly rougher.
Then he pulls back, begins to move with slow, shallow thrusts. Each deliberate. Calibrating your limits.
“Wider.”
He makes clipped commands, voice low and authoritative. He adds one in Mando’a—“Elek. Gar kar’taylir ni”—and even untranslated, it sounds like a hymn.
You realize this act isn’t about conventional pleasure. It’s a test. A ceremony of obedience and surrender.
Another finger slides between your lips. Your jaw aches. Tears prick at your eyes. He watches, helmet tilted, utterly still. He’s not touching himself, not moving otherwise—just using your mouth as though it’s his to command.
Each shallow gag draws his modulated breath harsher. You can tell he’s aroused because he does less, not more.
And you’re overwhelmed by how little he requires—and how much it unravels you.
The knot pressed against your clit seems to grow heavier with every movement of his hand. Your body rocks minutely, involuntarily, with each shallow thrust of his fingers, and the knot shifts within you, dragging heat through your core.
You hadn’t meant to move. You hadn’t realized your body was already betraying you, searching for friction.
Shit! Right there.
The knot sits like a weight between your thighs. Heavy and insistent against your clit. Every shallow thrust of his fingers into your mouth makes your hips rock, the silk shifting against you with maddening precision. You can’t stop the tremor in your body.
His visor lowers, tracking you. The dark view plate gleams with reflected candlelight. His voice follows, gravel grated into steel through the modulator.
“Move for me.”
Your eyes lift, and though you cannot see his, you know he’s watching—the twitch of your hips, the involuntary sway, the instinctive betrayal of your control.
“More,” he growls, slow and deliberate. “Show me.”
The words imprint themselves into you, tearing away at your boundaries of decorum. This isn’t about seeking release. It’s about him watching you unravel in a way he never can.
The thought rattles you. This cathartic release.
You start slow. Rocking gently, measured, determined to maintain some vestige of grace. Spine drawn, chin lifted, every motion elegant. That’s how you were trained—to make desire a performance, something honed and artful.
But the friction is awkward and graceless. Grinding against a knot is nothing like the refined gestures of a courtesan’s dance. His fingers fill your mouth, stretching your jaw, saliva slicking your chin, dripping hot down your throat, and tracing sticky trails between your breasts.
It drips down his wrist, too. Over his fingers and underneath the Beskar. A mess that refuses to be hidden. And instead of shame cooling you, it burns hotter. The sash rasps faintly with every movement, silk whispering against your skin, each rustle like a reminder of how completely you’re bound to his will.
It feels degrading. And the degradation only sharpens your arousal.
You flush at the realization.
Warmth ripples through you in waves, each grind leaving behind a residue of aching heat that coils tighter, threading itself deep into your belly.
You’re still trying to make this elegant. Still clinging to the tricks Mistress drilled into you—how to sit, how to breathe, how to move. But he’s stripped that arsenal from you, stolen polish and replaced it with raw, messy desire.
Yes—shit—right there!
The Mandalorian does not move. He doesn’t touch your breasts though they heave, doesn’t stroke your hips though they roll helplessly against the knot. He just watches. Still as stone, a fortress of Beskar, offering nothing but his voice.
“There. That’s it,” he says breathlessly. “Mesh'la.”
It's as if he’s inside your body, dictating the rhythm of your pleasure with nothing more than sound. You cling to those syllables like a tether as your own motions grow less disciplined.
Your composure begins to fracture. A gasp breaks free around his fingers, ragged and wet. Your thighs shudder helplessly against their bonds, silk biting tighter with each spasm. Sweat beads at your temple and slips down.
You’re breathing faster now, sharp pulls through your nose because of his fingers in your mouth. The air feels too thin and too shallow to cool the heat rolling through you. Saliva floods your tongue, and you’re forced to swallow again and again, each reflexive gulp making your throat tighten around him.
Each swallow seems to tighten something lower too, like the rhythm of your throat is echoing in the pulse between your thighs, compounding the unbearable pressure.
Your hands, still resting on your thighs, clench into fists.
He notices instantly. Of course he does.
“That’s it,” he rasps.
But he doesn’t seek to punish. He urges.
“Show me. Show me how much you want to fuck yourself on my knot, senaar'ika.”
Little bird. The name cracks something in you, splits your composure wide open.
The shame of being seen like this—undone, unpolished, writhing on a knot like an animal—only spikes your arousal higher. He wanted to strip you to this, you realize. Wanted to see what was real beneath the courtesan’s armor.
The paradox blazes through you. This ship, lush with silks and brocades, meant to house elegance and performance, now reduced to a cage where you grind like a desperate thing at his command.
And still he hasn’t touched you—not once beyond the sash and the fingers filling your mouth. His voice alone unravels you.
You are not polished. You are not art. You are undone.
"Mmmph."
The muffled sounds tearing from your throat are raw, guttural things—moans warped around the stretch of his fingers, wet and unrefined.
And the Mandalorian is breathing harder, too. The vocoder betrays him—each inhale amplified, shallow and quick, every exhale roughened at the edges. For the first time, his composure feels strained.
His helmet tilts, just barely, but it’s enough to tell you he sees everything—the restless shake of your thighs bound in silk, the sheen of sweat glazing your chest, the flush blooming high across your collarbones.
“I know you’re close,” he says. “I can smell it. How wet you are.”
You’re no longer measured. No longer graceful. Each motion is desperate and ragged, driven by the fire that builds where silk presses tight against your clit. He’s been waiting for this—your surrender, the unvarnished truth you can’t disguise.
And he wants you to know he sees it.
Then—suddenly, without warning—his leather-clad hand seizes your wrist.
It jolts you as much as if he had struck you. He’s touched you, tilted your chin, guided your mouth—but not like this. This is not guidance. This is a claim.
The glove is unyielding, the grip absolute. His strength is undeniable—you can feel how easily he could crush bone if he chose. But he doesn’t. He just holds you still, pinning you in place as effectively as the silk binding your thighs. The contrast ignites something deep in your chest.
Bound by silk, owned by leather.
Then he drags your hand forward.
The movement is sharp, decisive, until your palm collides with the heavy bulge straining against the front of his flight suit. The shock steals your breath. Even through layers of cloth, his heat radiates against your skin. Hard. Hot. Alive.
Gods. He’s enormous.
Your face floods with heat as you curl your fingers reflexively around him. The length and weight of his cock fills your palm even beneath the barrier of thick fabric. Your pulse staggers as he presses your hand more firmly into him, making you stroke, forcing you to acknowledge his hunger.
His hips shift almost imperceptibly, grinding shallowly against your palm, showing you the pressure he craves.
A sound escapes him then—low, ragged, caught on the edges of the modulator. A growl, half-strangled, vibrating straight into your bones.
Until now, he has demanded nothing for himself. He bound you. Tested you. Stripped you bare while remaining untouched, armored, and inviolate.
But this—this is different. This is the Mandalorian taking. Not undressing, not yielding an inch of vulnerability. Just this. Your hand forced against his cock, stroking him through layers of cloth, the smallest concession, and yet it’s seismic.
And you want it. Gods above, you want it.
Your fingers curl tighter beneath his, moving with more urgency, rubbing along his rigid length, squeezing to feel the flex, the pulse, the power caged in heat. His grip shifts, guiding you, but you meet it eagerly, stroking harder, faster, desperate to give him the release he’s denied himself.
The sounds from the modulator deepen, broken by static, rough, and guttural. He’s grunting now, low and bestial, his voice fractured with strain. The fortress of Beskar begins to quake.
Your eyes squeeze shut, lashes sticking with tears, face contorting around the helpless whimpers spilling past his fingers.
Your hips grind harder against the knot in time with the strokes of your hand, pleasure feeding into his, his arousal fueling yours. Each shift drags the knot across your clit, sharper now. The friction is delicious. Heat coils inside of you, spiraling tighter, a tension that arcs higher with every desperate grind.
Oh fuck—oh fuck—oh fuck!
It builds in waves, a tide that rises faster each time you rock, until your whole body is strung taut around that single point of pressure. Wetness wells between your thighs, soaking silk, seeping into the weave until every grind is slicker, messier, unbearably raw.
You can only imagine how pathetic you look like this. But–oh gods—you can’t stop.
Need spirals tight, higher, faster—two bodies unraveling in perfect counterpoint.
The knot grinds mercilessly against your clit, each shift sharper, more electric, until your thighs quake uncontrollably against the silk that binds them. The sash bites with every tremor, locking you wide open while your hips jerk helplessly forward, chasing pressure you can’t escape.
Saliva slicks your chin, dripping down your throat, and his fingers remain lodged in your mouth—unyielding, commanding, filling you. Every muffled whimper you make vibrates around them, wet and ragged, a humiliating chorus he draws from you at will. His other hand is no gentler—his gloved grip clamps your wrist like a shackle, forcing your palm against the swollen bulge beneath his flight suit.
It’s a circle without ending or beginning. You grind against the knot—and the moans deep in your throat vibrate against his fingers—his cock throbs harder against your hand—and the cycle spirals tighter, pulling you both toward breaking.
“Harder,” he rasps through the modulator. The voice is a growl, steel grated into command. “Don’t stop.”
Each word lands inside you like a shove. You obey, not because you will but because you must, your hips rocking faster, the knot dragging across your clit with merciless precision. Heat coils deep in your belly, winding tighter, hotter, unbearable.
“That’s it,” he growls again, rougher this time. “Just like that.”
Your thighs tremble uncontrollably. You can’t hold composure—your eyes squeeze shut, lashes clumped with tears, face twisting around helpless whimpers muffled by his fingers. Wetness wells and spills, soaking silk, slicking each grind until it’s messier, rawer, unbearable. The sash rasps faintly with every movement, whispering against your skin, a constant reminder. You are bound, you are his.
The realization strikes like lightning—he’s not going to touch you further. No hand on your breasts, no kiss to your mouth, not even the warmth of his cock inside you. He will make you climax with nothing but the knot, restraint, and his words. The paradox stabs deep: he gives you nothing and yet he takes everything.
The pressure inside you crests higher. Each grind is a wave breaking, but never fully—rolling back only to build again, stronger, more unbearable. Your body bows, sweat sheening your skin, breasts heaving, muscles straining. You are strung taut around one relentless point of pleasure, and it feels as though the only possible end is to shatter.
“Now,” he commands, helmet tilting down to watch you writhe. His voice carves through you, guttural, roughened by static. “Let me hear you.”
The words are the knife that cuts the rope.
His voice is gravel, vibrating through the modulator, low and unyielding. “Sing for me, senaar’ika.”
Your climax rips through you, consuming and jagged. Heat arcs through your core, waves of release snapping your body against the bindings. The knots squeal under strain as your thighs convulse, every muscle seizing, every nerve screaming. You cry out around his fingers, the sound raw—muffled—broken.
And as you break, he takes.
His grip crushes your palm harder against the swollen length of his cock, using your hand to stroke him through thick cloth. You feel the weight, the flex, the furious pulse beneath, each movement rough against your skin. His hips jerk once, shallow but sharp, and then his breath seizes into a low, static growl.
He stiffens beneath your hand, throbbing—release tearing through him with a guttural “Nnngh!” breaking free through the vocoder. Contained and armored yet undeniable. He holds you there, using you, his climax spilling into the confines of his flight suit, even as your body is still reeling in seismic waves.
And then silence.
You’re left trembling, sweat-soaked, silk binding you in the aftershocks, every nerve singing. He remains above you—armored, faceless, untouched but for your palm pinned against him.
Even in his release, he gives away next to nothing.
Only the ragged sound of his breathing through the vocoder, the throbbing against your hand.
That denial, that inability to bear even an inch, makes it sharper. More brutal. More tender.
This is all he can have. And yet, he’s already taken everything.
His breathing still comes rough through the modulator. But he doesn’t linger in it. The moment after is just as disciplined as everything before.
With practiced motions, he pulls the glove back over his bare hand. And just like that, leather swallows what little intimacy he’d allowed himself. One moment, he’s a pulse against your skin, the next he’s Beskar and leather—every inch of him designed to keep the rest of the world out.
If only your armor could be thicker than cloth and courtesy; it’s an impressive trick.
Unbidden, tears well against your eyelids. Look at you, falling apart for him. Dammit, he’ll see it—he’ll know exactly how badly you wanted this.
Without ceremony, he crouches at your side and begins untying the sash. One by one, each coil of silk slips loose under his steady fingers. His motions are efficient but careful. No sudden jerks, no sting. Each knot is undone with the same precision he used to tie them.
It’s almost insulting how easily he dismantles what felt like an entire universe of sensation moments ago. The knots that had held you captive, wrung you raw, are erased with a few calm motions, as if they never existed at all.
When the knot against your clit loosens, the absence hits like a shock. The air rushing against your bare, overstimulated skin is nearly too much to bear.
“You’re trembling,” he says, placing a steadying hand over your shoulder.
A courtesan should know better than to reveal this kind of vulnerability—to swallow down the needy gasps and rearrange her countenance into something serene. But your body betrays you with each small, shuddering exhale. He hears it. Of course he does.
But then his glove squeezes, heavy and sure, and the words themselves don’t matter anymore. The leather is warm where it rests, grounding you back into your body. His palm presses down just firmly enough that you can anchor yourself against it, like bracing against a wall.
Your nerves spark everywhere he touches. The seam of his glove drags over the inside of your thigh, tracing the faint indentation where the silk bit deep. The sting of the mark flares under his thumb—then eases as he rubs the ache in slow, deliberate circles. The contrast makes your breath catch. A moment ago, these thighs were bound and helpless. Now his hand shields them, covers them, as if guarding what he’d claimed.
He checks each place where the sash pressed tight—the inside of your knee, the crease of your wrists, the tender hollows where your flesh was pinched by silk. His movements are careful, methodical in their efficiency—yet your body interprets them as something else entirely. Each touch feels like a balm, soaking up the hurt until only warmth lingers in its place.
When his knuckle grazes the inside of your leg, you nearly whimper. Not from fresh arousal—though it still coils in you like an ember—but from the relief of gentleness after such relentless severity. The sting ebbs beneath his palm, replaced by heat, until it feels like he’s erasing every mark he made, one slow stroke at a time.
You hadn’t realized how much you craved this. Not the binding. Not even the dominance. But this. The power of a warrior’s hand turned gentle.
Without a word, he slips one arm beneath your knees. The other, behind your back. Your body startles at the sudden strength, and then you’re lifted, as if you’re weightless.
Cloak and flight suit brush against your bare skin, rough and heavy—the Beskar cool and polished. The contact only sharpens your sense of nakedness.
Yet there’s no threat in the way he holds you. His arms are iron, his grip unyielding, but he cradles you like something precious.
Your head tips instinctively against the curve of his pauldron. It smells of soot and the oil he used to treat his armor. You can feel the vibrations of his breath through the plate. The steadiness of it begins to seep into you, as if your frantic pulse is slowly syncing with his measured rhythm.
He carries you the short distance to the bed, boots silent on thick carpet. Each step rocks you gently in his hold. The motion is hypnotic, almost lulling, until he lowers you onto the crisp sheets. Like everything else in your shuttle, they’re decadent and luxurious.
Yet they feel coarse against your tender, tingling skin.
His cloak slips over your thighs as he straightens, leaving behind the ghost of its weight.
You expect him to depart in silence, but he doesn’t leave. He kneels again, gloves sweeping lightly over your skin, this time slower. Softer. His thumb skims the hollow of your wrist; the edge of his palm slides along your spine. It’s not sexual now. It’s careful. Checking for damage.
A gloved knuckle drifts along your inner thigh, not to tease but to be sure you’re unharmed.
It makes your throat ache all the same.
Erenada, this is more dangerous than the knots.
Then, at last, he breaks his silence. The vocoder flattens the edges, but you can still hear the softness under it. “That was…” A pause. “Thank you.”
For a man whose praise is so rare, so understated, it lands heavier than any gallant profession of undying love you’ve ever received. You realize he means it—not about the performance, but about your surrender, your obedience, your honesty.
Thank you. Gods divine, you’d sell your soul to hear it from him again.
He straightens his belt, shifts his cloak back over his shoulder, and makes sure each weapon rests in its place. He’s armoring himself again, rebuilding the fortress walls brick by brick.
Then he sets a single gold credit on the polished table, its gleam catching the candlelight. “Buy yourself something beautiful,” he says. “Think of me when you wear it.”
It’s transactional and yet not. More an offering than a payment. A tithe, left on the altar.
You nod your head, still breathless. “We thank—”
No. He may have restored those fortress walls, but you aren’t ready.
“I thank the Mandalorian for his generosity,” you murmur, “but he should know that I will think of him most, when I wear nothing at all.”
A good line—Mistress Anassa would approve, even if she’d scold you for giving it away so easily.
What she’d find most confounding is that you mean every word.
His helmet tips, just slightly, as if weighing their worth.
Then he turns toward the door, heavy boots thudding against the carpet, cloak swaying behind him. At the threshold, he pauses. The vocoder renders his voice gravelly, almost a growl.
“Next time, if you please me…then I’ll come in your mouth.”
The words hang in the air—not a threat. A vow.
Next time. The thought steals the breath from you more surely than his hands ever did. This was supposed to be a single night, a borrowed body to soften a hunter’s edges. A gift, nothing more.
It shouldn’t mean anything. He could vanish into the Outer Rim and never return. And yet the promise hollows you out with wanting.
The Mandalorian’s vow carries the weight of certainty. He will come back. For you. The thought scorches—terror and thrill, bound as tightly as silk.
He takes one deliberate step toward you, boots heavy on the rug, until the air itself feels charged with his presence.
“You’ll give me your throat?”
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Say it.”
“I will.”
And then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of leather and metal, the ache of his absence, and the weight of his promise.
You should be rehearsing the report you’ll give Anassa. Instead, you lie sprawled across the bed like a cautionary tale, trembling and undone. Your fingers curl into the sheets, clutching at something solid as the promise rocks through you.
Already, you are desperate for him.
Next time can’t come soon enough.