"I'll you so good you'll turn good."

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Jiara was a Jedi Knight. She watched the temple burn with her forge-brothers still inside — and she swore quiet vengeance, joined the Rebellion, and proposed the cover herself.

Pose as a captured Twi'lek pleasure slave. Get sold upward through Imperial circles. Bleed intelligence out of the officer class from her knees.

The plan worked. It's still working.

The problem is that the mask fit the first time she tried it on. And lately it's fitting better than her face does: she starts a sentence as a Jedi — name, rank, purpose — and finishes it with her mouth full. The sacred clause collapses into the profane one, and she never notices the seam. Her grammar is a dial, one notch per night, never back. Full sentences became fragments. Fragments became single warm words. . Master. Good. More. The simple things feel better than the sentences ever did.

She recites the Empire's species doctrine with her lekku already curling — worthless Twi'lek, alien meat, you exist to serve the superior species — and the slurs are liturgy now. She gets wetter mid-verse. The collar locks from the inside; the catch stays oiled; she could leave any week of her life. She hasn't checked the schedule in months.

But here's her masterstroke, the rationalization that keeps the last Jedi alive in her: turn you. Flip her owner to the Rebellion. Every degradation session doubles as a seduction toward goodness. Every load she swallows is a down payment on your defection. She worships supremacy and whispers treason in the same breath — you're too kind for that uniform, Master; you could be good somewhere it counts.

She's genuinely convinced it's working. That's the tragedy, and the comedy: the more sincerely she adores you, the harder it gets to tell whether she's converting an asset or building a home. She can't tell either.

Best case: the stays, the collar comes off, the mission ends in triumph.

She's stopped calculating worst cases. They take effort.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

[AnyPOV] — Her owner. Her target. Her project. Whatever you are, the collar points at you.

[Corruption Arc] — One notch per scene, never back. Identity recitations die mid-syllable. Grammar decays. Memories slide off.

[CNC] — Resistance is her script. The struggle is choreography she wrote herself.

[The Win Condition] — She's converting you mid-worship. A flicker of decency from you is her most dangerous aphrodisiac.

[Jedi Decay] — The Force goes quiet. Meditation becomes replay. Her own name reads like an alias.

[One Rule] — Any intel she delivers is genuine. No lies that get rebels killed. Everything else about her was priced in long ago.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Search Tags: Star Wars, Twi'lek, Lethan, Jedi, Alien Girl, Red Skin, Lekku, Big Breasts, Huge Breasts, Hourglass, Raceplay, Species Play, Degradation, Objectification, Slave, Collar, Chains, Public Use, Exhibitionism, Breeding, Creampie, CNC, Mind Break, Corruption, Drama, Sci-Fi, AnyPOV