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Luthen is on his way out of the gallery, divested of his antiquarian disguise, when Kleya catches him and asks suspiciously, “Are you wearing cologne?” It makes him falter ever so slightly.
Kleya doesn’t always make it a point to let him know she knows exactly who he’s going to meet. After the shock of the Aldhani news and the impromptu visit afterward, however, the Senator’s name seems to float in the air between them. He fixes her with a stoic look, willing her not to press further.
“Don’t wait up for me tonight.” He tells her, brooking no further questions. The weight of Kleya’s judgment follows him all the way out the door.
It’s not hard at all to blend into the faceless masses in his forest green overcoat, a belted dark brown tunic and black slacks over boots. The cold wind that whips between structures at this level ruffles his hair, free of the wig he wears during most of his waking hours on Coruscant.
The safehouse is tucked away in a shoddy apartment building in the 1919s. Simple enough to find for those who know where to look. As always, they coordinate through appropriately clandestine channels. Luthen sends meeting details to the Senator’s personal comm link from a burner code and any replies he receives are sent from a different encrypted line every time.
Despite these protocols, his caution (paranoia) has delayed him. He takes a looping route through the bustling street markets, doubling back on a crowded speeder to shake any potential tails. He draws his hood over his head as he enters the building, obscuring his face from everyone he passes. The dingy turbolift takes him to the 43rd floor. From there he goes to the end of the hall and keys in the code that lets him in.
Senator Mothma is already there.
The overhead lights are off, but that’s not a problem. Neon lights stream through the windows and illuminate enough of the small space. She stands next to the paltry shelf from which she plucks a dusty bottle of Corellian whiskey and pours into two mismatched glasses on the kitchenette counter.
“You’re late,” she says, the displeasure in her voice easily discerned. The amber liquid sloshes around a single thick ice cube as she passes him the glass, the clinking loud in the silence.
Luthen accepts it, his fingers brushing hers. “My apologies, Senator. I took extra precautions on the way here. Wouldn’t do if the ISB wondered why we were meeting twice in one day.”
She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. That icy disappointment from their earlier meeting locks onto him again.
“Did I ask?” her tone drips with disdain,“Do I care?”
Luthen meets her eyes and downs the whiskey in one burning gulp, the fire matching the one building in her stare. He senses he’s going to need it.
None of their sessions have been quite the same. Neither of them are the same people they were when they started. Senator Mothma is as effective here as she is – or was – in the Senate (before its mandate was rendered meaningless, when she was considered as powerful and cunning a politician as then-Chancellor Palpatine himself).
That is to say, she reads him for filth every time. She can see that there are no restraints she could possibly bind him with so effective as the web of lies he weaves. He needs her to tear through it in the way only she can. She is a mirror held up to his secrets, his burdens, his anger, his hatred, his doubt.
Oh, how he doubts. How he wonders if everything he’s ever done in service to the Rebellion will amount to anything, in the end.
He sees all that reflected back at him in the blue of her eyes. They’ve understood each other, up to this point. He thinks of the artifact she took on loan and returned the other day. The two-faced divinity. A sun goddess and a serpent intertwined in some cosmic cycle of death and rebirth.
He wonders if the galaxy is strong enough to withstand the sundering of such primordial forces, and then shakes his head at himself. There’s no place here for the foolish sentimentality of an old man.
The Senator is a beautiful woman. He knows this, how her image is a carefully cultivated front that keeps people at a distance. Someone once said that to be beautiful is to be invisible, as ludicrous as that sounds. Invisible because the exterior is always too dazzling for anyone to get past it, to the beating heart of what makes a person. Has she ever felt truly known? He turns over the idea in his mind while he watches her shrug out of her cerulean robes. The fabric falls at her feet, and he’s treated to the breathtaking splendor of her in elaborate lingerie.
Tonight, she dons a creamy satin corset and matching lace panties that barely cover her cunt. Her legs are clad in leather boots the same shade as the corset and laced to the thigh, making them seem endless. Luthen can feel her cataloging his reactions. Ever the politician, she is looking for vulnerabilities. How she can exploit his lust to serve her own ends: namely, her need for control. Because nothing outside these walls is within her control. It’s only here that they can both pretend, and that is headier than any act either of them could perform upon the other.
“You’re going to suffer tonight,” the Senator quietly informs him. She walks back to the counter for her drink and takes a dainty sip. Her heels clack on the cheap tile and her slim hips sway as she steps closer, swirling the whiskey in her glass. He was wrong about her panties, he realizes. They’re not meant to cover her at all; they’re crotchless.
“Take off your coat. Then kneel.” She takes another sip from her glass and watches him. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”
Luthen studies Mon’s face, a coldly beautiful mask (It’s true, he thinks, there’s no way in), and does as he’s told.
“What am I being punished for, ma’am?” Luthen dares to ask, despite knowing the answer. He’d thrown his coat over the single chair and is now on his knees, sitting on his heels. She normally doesn’t permit him to speak unless spoken to. But he needs to hear her say it, tonight.
“Aldhani,” Mon bites out, looking down at him where he kneels. “Did you spare a thought for what this means for me? The spies will close ranks. You’ve made it harder for me to do what I need to do.” Luthen hisses in pleasure-pain as she stands on one leg and presses the sole of her thigh high leather boot firmly against the growing bulge between his legs. “So I don’t want to hear you disparage my solution, not when your ego and impatience created this mess in the first place.”
His body revolts against the feeling at first. He sways under the sudden pressure at his groin, causing her to lose her balance slightly. A few drops of whiskey spill onto her thigh and drip down the side of her boot. Her lip curls slightly in annoyance.
“Look what you’ve done.” She pushes into him just a little harder, drawing a groan out of him. “Clean it up.”
He grips her ankle to steady her first. Then he leans forward, tongue out, to catch the fallen droplets trailing down the leather. He licks along her inner thigh and knows he’s not imagining it when her breath hitches. The musky scent of her arousal blends enticingly with the smooth burn of the whiskey, but he holds back despite the temptation to raise himself up and taste her.
The Senator finally relents, and he exhales shakily in relief. She takes two small steps back, then moves around him in a slow circle, running her fingers through his hair as she goes. Her clear lacquered nails scrape his scalp and tug his hair so that he has to crane his neck to look at her. She moves to stand in front of him, still gripping his hair, and leans down far enough to give him a view of her cleavage. She takes what’s left of her drink and tips it down his throat.
“I want you on the bed. Take the rest of this off.”
She lets go of his hair and he gets to his feet, grateful as his knees had begun to ache. A flash of irritation cuts through the haze of his desire at the undeniable reminder of his age. He brushes the thought aside as she places the empty glass on the counter next to his and waits for him to undress.
He quickly unties his belt and places it in her outstretched hand, while pulling his tunic over his head. Shucking off the rest of his clothes and boots, he sits on the edge of the bed to await her next instructions.
The Senator doesn’t leave him alone for long. She pushes him back so he lies flat on the mattress and digs her nails into his chest. “Arms up. Near the headboard.”
Now he understands her intent. He complies silently, watching how skilfully she binds his wrists to the rail of the headboard, and wonders how it is that she’s so good at this. At all of this. Did she discover this hidden talent of hers with her husband? Her aide, the young Mister Semaj?
Perhaps she keeps a secret harem of pretty Chandrilan men somewhere in the embassy. Perhaps this is yet another way of rebelling against her homeworld’s traditions, of reclaiming something she’d lost when she was married off at fifteen.
He finds he doesn’t much care. Not when he’s the only one who gets to enjoy the fruits of her labor. There's a look of satisfaction on her face as she secures his bindings a bit tighter than she’s ever done in the past. When she reaches into her corset and pulls something out from between her breasts, his eyes widen in surprise.
“You’re lucky I brought this one rather than the metal one,” she mentions casually as she stretches the black silicon ring over his length, bringing it right down to the base of his cock. Half hard as he is, the ring’s effect is near instantaneous. He can’t help the moan that escapes him, the way his hips jerk, when she fists his cock and strokes him from root to tip just once. The belt around his wrists bites into his skin as he pulls against it, but all he can focus on is the way the Senator is staring at his erection with parted lips.
It’s another few moments before she speaks, as though she’s debating internally how best to torment him. Finally, the mattress shifts as she rests one foot on the edge to unlace her boot, and then the other. She makes fast work of it while also giving him a little show. Her back arches as she takes off the boots, then she climbs onto the bed to straddle him.
“Mmm. That’s much better.” The Senator leans forward with her hands on his chest, so close now that she completely fills his field of vision. “You’re not going to come until I say you can. If you break that rule, I’ll leave you here like this. Understood?”
“Understood, Senator,” he rasps.
She rewards him with a rare smile, even as she says, “I didn’t appreciate the way you spoke to me this morning either. The implication that my advocacy for nonviolence makes me naive. Do you think I’m naive, Luthen?”
He listens to her words but is distracted by the way she’s climbing up his body to reposition her cunt over his face. Her scent fills his nostrils again, makes his cock twitch against the ring. He wishes his hands were free so he could spread her wide and taste her properly. As it is, he’s meant to be apologizing. He reminds himself this is for her pleasure more than his.
“Forgive me,” he rasps. His cock is so hard, he’ll do anything for the relief only she can give him.
“No. Earn your forgiveness.” Mon lowers herself slowly, hovering just above his mouth, and he sets about devouring her even as it causes him to harden further, straining uncomfortably.
She rocks gently at first, controlling the rhythm. He laps at her greedily, using every tactic he knows to please her, tongue flicking, swirling, sucking at her clit and then spearing her entrance until she’s humming and bearing down on him.
With one hand braced on the headboard, the other fisted in his hair, she soon picks up the pace, riding his face with ruthless precision and directing him exactly where she wants. Her thighs tighten around his upper arms; the mattress creaks softly with every roll of her hips. When she comes, it’s sudden, fierce, her whole body locking as she grinds against his mouth, smothering any sound he might have made and stealing his breath. He doesn’t stop until she lifts off, breathing hard, eyes glassy with satisfaction.
“Very good, Luthen.” She pants, perching on his chest. The praise sends a thrill of gratification down his spine. It takes her a few moments to catch her breath before she reaches behind her back for the lace ties of her corset. Her brow furrows in concentration as she unlaces herself one-handed and unfastens the hook-and-eye closures in front.
He admires the curve of her bare shoulder, the movement of her elegant collarbone as she carefully removes the corset and drops it off the side of the bed. She raises the sleeveless silk shift above her head and rids herself of it too. The sight of her bare, heaving breasts makes his cock twitch again and another moan escapes him. She raises an eyebrow at his reaction.
“Do you think you deserve a reward for that? I don’t think you’re quite done repenting for your tone this morning.”
She clicks her tongue in disapproval when she catches him staring at her chest. She grasps his jaw roughly and growls, “Look at me when I speak to you.”
He swallows, noticing the glint in her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
She slides down his body, attention now focused on his straining erection, the cock ring doing its work, making him throb with denied release. She settles between his legs, one hand trailing lightly up his inner thigh before cupping his balls, gentle at first, rolling them in her palm, assessing.
Then she leans in and wraps her hand around his shaft, her mouth enveloping him slowly, tongue swirling around the head as she takes him deeper. The ring amplifies everything: the wet heat of her mouth, the suction as she hollows her cheeks. He groans, hips jerking involuntarily; it’s so very good.
She squeezes his balls then — firm, insistent, the pressure spiking from a teasing ache to a sharp, searing pain that makes him jump, body jerking against his restraints. “Fuck!” he curses through gritted teeth, the word escaping before he can bite it back, pain lancing through the pleasure like a vibroblade. It blurs the edges of his sight, turns the warmth of her mouth into something electric. Unbearable. Intoxicating. She doesn’t let up, her squeeze holding steady as she sucks harder, her nails grazing his skin, pushing him further into that razor-wire tension where agony and ecstasy twist into one. The Senator ceases her movements unexpectedly, a temporary reprieve.
“Revolutions are expensive,” she quotes him in a mocking tone while she pumps her hand around his shaft, “You have many mouths to feed. I think the only mouth you need concern yourself with is the one about to swallow you down.”
He chokes on a moan as she takes him back in again. She knows exactly how to handle him: a hard suck, a swipe of her tongue, and then, another squeeze – harder this time, her grip unyielding as she drives him higher, the ring preventing any escape, any quick end. He is completely at her mercy. His body bows and arches, muscles taut as she works him relentlessly, sucking, licking, squeezing in a rhythm of ecstasy and torment, each pulse of pain heightening the pleasure until he’s trembling on the precipice, every nerve screaming.
One of his legs nearly buffets her after a particularly vicious squeeze. She abruptly pauses her ministrations to land a sharp slap on his inner thigh, as well as the other for good measure.
"You'll take every bit of what I give you," she admonishes him and slaps him hard one more time, "Take it." She closes her lips around him again, lets her teeth graze his tip.
Sweat beads on his skin in response; his breaths come in ragged gasps. She pulls back again, just to watch him throb in the air, her hand still kneading his balls with that calculated cruelty, eyes meeting his. The cold fire there scalds him. It makes him think of the artifact again, in his heightened delirium.
Will he be made anew? Or will he perish in her wake?
“I want to hear you beg,” she whispers, breath hot against his skin.
“Please,” he groans shamelessly. “Mon—please.”
The uncharacteristic use of her name instead of her title softens her gaze. She takes him in again, the squeeze of her hand turning vise-like as she drives him to the brink, pain lacing the pleasure to make him shake and shudder uncontrollably. Finally, she releases his balls and slides her hand up to stroke his shaft in tandem with her mouth. She hums around him, the vibration sending shockwaves through his core.
“Come,” she says, pulling off just enough to speak, her lips brushing the tip. “Now.”
Her permission shatters him. With the ring in place, the release is intense, prolonged, waves crashing through him as he spills into her mouth, hips bucking wildly. Pain-tinged ecstasy leaves him shuddering, spent, voice hoarse from the cries he can’t hold back. The Senator swallows, licking him clean with languid strokes, then carefully removes the ring. She looks on as he winces at the sudden rush of blood.
Without a word, she reaches up and loosens the belt, her fingers deft but unhurried. As his arms fall free, he sighs and rubs at the chafed skin. She catches his hand and inspects his wrist closely. From the kitchenette, she fetches a threadbare cloth, dampens it under the faucet, and returns to dab at the marks. The coolness soothes the burn, and he finds himself mesmerized by this reversal in her demeanor. She places his hand gently down at his side and briefly runs her fingertips over his chest, his stomach, his groin. He closes his eyes at her touch, unaware he’s even making a sound until she quietly shushes him.
“Easy,” she murmurs, her voice shifting from command to care, the ice in her eyes melting into something warmer. Now she reaches for a small medkit she must’ve brought with her (he hadn’t noticed it on the nightstand earlier) and applies a thin layer of bacta gel to his wrists and the spots on his balls where her nails left small abrasions. Her touch is surprisingly tender, rather than clinical. It helps him relax, to even out his breathing.
“You took that beautifully,” she says softly, “I pushed you hard tonight. Keep breathing through it.”
He nods, his body still humming with aftershocks, and he leans into her touch as she helps him sit up.
“Thank you.” His voice is rough, but his touch is gentle as he traces the curve of her spine, stopping just shy of the lace around her hips. She doesn’t pull away. The neon lights paint her skin in shifting hues. They just look at each other now, solemn in the aftermath.
“Aldhani was necessary,” he says quietly when he finds his voice again. “But I don’t think you’re naive.”
The Senator replies only with a nod. Her expression is schooled back into that tremulous neutrality. She’s locked herself down again.
“The meeting went through tonight. My family friend will help me. He didn’t say it outright, but I know him; he’ll help me.”
“Alright,” Luthen concedes. He keeps his touch light between her shoulder blades. “Alright.”