Zayne
The neon glow of Corruzcant cast a kaleidoscope of sin over the Undercity, its towering spires piercing the smog-choked sky, pleasure droids purring from every shadowed alley. Zayne Ryde wove through the labyrinthine streets of Level 87, his leather jacket dusted with ash from a rough skiff landing, his dark hair clinging damply to his brow from the city’s humid breath. The data chit from Nabooty burned in his pocket—Dominion supply routes to the Outer Veil, a rebel prize he’d secured with Lira’s help. He slipped into the Velvet Abyss, a dive bar throbbing with synth-beats and the tang of burnt circuits, his green eyes sharp with the weight of his trade. Zayne was a smuggler, not a hero, and Corruzcant was his hunting ground.
His past wasn’t one of glory. Born on Verdis, an agri-moon crushed under Dominion quotas, he’d watched his father beaten to death by an officer over a late shipment, his mother fading from grief a year later. At sixteen, he’d fled, stowing away on a freighter, learning the galaxy’s underbelly—first contraband food, then weapons, until Euphoria Dust became his lifeline. The Dominion’s oppression was a blight, sure, but it fattened his purse, driving demand for escape. Zayne didn’t care for their iron rule or the rebellion’s dreams—his loyalty was to survival, to the memory of his parents’ laughter, to his younger brother still toiling on Verdis. If the rebels bought his dust or paid for missions, he’d play along, but his heart was his own.
Inside the Velvet Abyss, Kalia awaited, a Corruzcant hacker with violet hair and a cybernetic eye that flickered with mischief. Her black bodysuit hugged her lithe frame, her smirk a dare as she slid a drink his way. “Routes, smuggler?” she purred, her voice a low thrum over the music. “The resistance needs them—supply lines to strike. But Dominion’s watching.”
Zayne sipped the drink, its burn a familiar sting, and passed her the chit. “They pay, I deliver,” he said, his gaze sweeping the bar. “But I smell a trap.”
Kalia leaned in, her cybernetic eye whirring. “A Dominion spy’s on your tail—blonde, lethal, desperate. Be careful.”
Zayne’s mind drifted to Nabooty—the silver-masked woman, her body a storm of curves, her moans a melody as they’d fucked in that alcove. He didn’t know her, but her touch lingered, a mystery that haunted him more than any enforcer.
The bar’s lights dimmed, signaling the night’s private revels, and Kalia tugged him to a secluded booth, her intent clear. “Seal this deal, Zayne,” she whispered, her hands guiding him down as she shed her bodysuit, revealing pert breasts and a glistening core.
Zayne obliged, his lips trailing down her stomach, his tongue finding her heat. He pleasured her with slow, deliberate strokes, her moans rising above the synth-beats, her fingers tangling in his hair. But his mind wandered—to the silver-masked woman, her gown hiked, her taste a phantom on his tongue. He imagined her beneath him, her legs parting, her cries as he devoured her, the mystery of her driving him wild.
Kalia shuddered, her climax a sharp cry, her body trembling as she rode his mouth to completion.
Zayne pulled back, his cock aching, unfulfilled, the fantasy leaving him with a throbbing edge that pulsed with unmet need.
Kalia adjusted herself, sated, her smirk returning. “Nice work, smuggler,” she teased, slipping him a new lead. “Jackyou’s next—scavengers want dust, and they’ve got rebel ties. ”
Zayne nodded, his jaw tight, the ache a reminder of the woman he couldn’t shake. He didn’t care for the rebellion’s fight, but he cared for his brother’s freedom—and maybe, just maybe, for the enigma who’d left him wanting.
Lysara
Commander Lysara Vex stood on a neon-drenched balcony overlooking Corruzcant’s Undercity, the city’s electric hum a discordant echo of the tempest within her. Her Dominion uniform felt like a cage, its gray fabric a lie against the wildfire that had roared to life in Nabooty—her masked encounter with a stranger, a man whose touch had shattered her defenses, leaving her raw and yearning. She’d tracked the smuggler Zayne Ryde here, his Euphoria Dust runs a thread to the rebellion she was tasked to crush, her mission a razor’s edge over a chasm of failure. The Dominion demanded results—supply routes, rebel names—or her career, her family’s honor, her life would be forfeit. Her parents, aging on a distant colony, relied on her rank for protection; failure meant their exile to Kessellion’s mines, a death sentence for them, and for her, a public execution to set an example.
Lysara’s repression was a wound, carved by the Dominion’s creed—no pleasure, no weakness, only duty. At twenty-eight, she’d buried her desires, her body a stranger until Nabooty’s Euphoria Dust had unleashed them. In Moan Eisley, she’d watched Zayne with that woman, his alcove tryst a vision that haunted her—his thrusts, her moans, the raw power of his release. She’d longed to be her, to feel Zayne between her legs, his mouth on her core, his cock filling the void she’d denied herself. In Nabooty, the masked stranger had fulfilled that fantasy, his touch a mirror to her Moan Eisley longing, but she didn’t know it was Zayne—his gold mask had hidden him, the drug blurring her senses, leaving her with a mystery that burned hotter than any intel.
Her mission loomed like a shadow over a crumbling cliff, but the ache within her was a rebellion she couldn’t quell. She descended into the Velvet Abyss, her uniform swapped for a sleek black dress, her blonde hair a loose cascade, her blue eyes sharp with purpose. The bar thrummed with life, synth-beats vibrating through her as she spotted Zayne with a violet-haired woman—Kalia, a hacker with rebel ties. Lysara’s plan crystallized: extract intel through seduction, tighten her grip on the rebellion. She approached a female rebel courier, a lithe woman named Saria, her dark eyes wary but intrigued as Lysara slid into the booth beside her, her voice a silken whisper. “I need information, darling,” she purred, her hand brushing Saria’s thigh, her touch a calculated promise.
Saria tensed, but Lysara’s fingers traced higher, slipping beneath the courier’s leather skirt, finding the heat of her skin. “Tell me about the smuggler’s next move,” Lysara murmured, her lips grazing Saria’s ear, her breath warm as she pressed a soft kiss to the curve of her neck. Saria’s resistance melted, her breath hitching as Lysara’s hand moved with expert precision, fingers circling her clit through the thin fabric of her undergarments.
“Jackyou,” Saria gasped, her voice trembling as Lysara’s touch deepened, slipping beneath the fabric to stroke her directly, her fingers slick with Saria’s arousal. “He’s heading to Jackyou—scavengers, rebel ties.”
Lysara’s lips trailed down Saria’s throat, tasting the salt of her skin, her own body igniting with the act. She imagined the masked stranger from Nabooty—his mouth on her, his hands gripping her hips, the way he’d fucked her with a hunger that matched her own. She didn’t know it was Zayne, but the fantasy bled into her longing for him, her Moan Eisley desire to have him between her legs now a torment as she pleasured Saria. Her fingers thrust deeper, curling inside the courier, her thumb teasing her clit in a rhythm that matched the synth-beats. Saria’s moans grew desperate, her hands clutching Lysara’s shoulders as she came, her climax a shuddering release, her gasps spilling the last of her intel—Jackyou’s rebel network, a growing threat.
Lysara withdrew, her own core throbbing, unfulfilled, the fantasy of the masked man leaving her on edge. She glanced at Zayne, now parting from Kalia, his expression tight with unmet need—a mirror to her own. Her heart ached, not just for duty, but for the girl she’d been before the Dominion—a girl who’d dreamed of love, of freedom, now buried under orders. She cared for her parents, for their safety, but Zayne was a crack in her armor—a man who lived free, who could break her or save her. Jackyou awaited, her mission sharper, her desire a blade she’d wield in the scavenger sands, the mystery of the masked man a fire she couldn’t extinguish.
