Star Wars: Imperial Prostitute SX-51472
Chapter 1
Rating: R

Bethany Handcuff

Author's notes: The following story takes place soon after the conclusion of Legacy of the Force. This is the 10th Star Wars story that I have written. Please leave me feedback, public or through email. (ahandcuffgirl at yahoo dot com)



The woman, naked and half-asleep, shifted on the deck as she heard the hatch to the cargo bay slide open. Then she heard, and felt, the rhythm of booted footsteps on the deck.

The steady beat of the boots reached into her dreams, making her frown as she realized there was something she should be remembering—but she was still exhausted from her on-duty shift the night before. She'd been fucked virtually non-stop for the whole eight-hour session, injected with a powerful stimulant to make her last longer, come more often, and come harder.

Right now, she was too beat to think much—and she didn't really want to leave the pleasant memories of how she'd been used.

She shifted sleepily again, as she realized the footsteps had stopped. Someone was standing over her, blocking the glowpanel.

“On your feet, Private Essex!” a commanding voice ordered.

The girl shifted sleepily in response, vaguely remembering that 'Essex' was her name—or at least, the one the crew of the transport ship had made up for her, using the letters of her Imperial Serial Number, SX-51472.

Officially, she didn't actually have a name. She certainly didn't need one, and she liked it that way.

Then she felt the toecap of a boot nudge her naked body, and she became more alert, her guilt increasing alongside her awareness as she realized where she was. After going off-duty the night before, she had been chained up by Sergeant Vixer in the corner of the transport's cargo hold, and she had fallen asleep in her usual spot on the deck.

She blushed in embarrassment as she looked up guiltily at the man standing over her. She wasn't embarrassed at her nudity. She was embarrassed that she hadn't woken up immediately when called. The human male standing over her was tall and heavily muscular, with medium-tanned skin and a face that could have been carved from solid anvilstone, wearing the gray overalls of an Imperial Navy cargo-master.

SX-54172 bit her lip, and dropped her gaze, feeling embarrassed.

Beside the man was a woman in an officer's uniform, with a pretty face, and a stern expression. Her body was obviously strong and nicely curved beneath her Imperial tunic and breeches.

The female officer looked down at the slim girl on the floor with an expression even more contemptuous than the man beside her.

“On your feet, Private!” the big man growled.

SX-51472 obeyed instantly, standing up fast and assuming the parade position: feet apart, hands clasped behind her ass. As she moved, the chain that linked her durasteel collar to the cargo ring on the deck shivered.

SX-51472 — Seventy-Two, for short — was naked. She had brown hair that was cut very short, and she was slim, lithe and slight of stature, but athletic. Her lean muscles had the strength and definition that came from months of intensive ProCorps workouts. On the toned abs of her lower belly, between her navel and her smooth, hairless pussy, she had a tattoo of the Imperial sigil, with her official title — Imperial Prostitute — and serial number inscribed beneath it.

The phrase Imperial Property was printed across her tight butt-cheeks, too — one word on each side of her ass.

Apart from the tattoos, the only things she wore was the heavy durasteel collar round her neck, with the chain leash fastened at the front.

“Bad girl, Essex,” Vixer grinned, running his gaze up and down her curves, leering at her like he always did when they talked. “Not the best way to impress your new commanding officer.” As he spoke, he gestured at the attractive-looking female officer beside him. “This is Captain Garowyn, the commandant of Zeta Garrison. Flew out specially so we could make the cargo transfer early. She's officially in charge of you as of oh-two-hundred.”

Seventy-Two nodded, understanding all that she needed to. Garowyn was, in effect, her new owner. “Yes, sir.”

Vixer grinned nastily in approval. “Looking forward to putting your training to good use, SX-51472?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Seventy-Two nodded, feeling herself getting wet at the mere thought of her new duties. “Very eager to serve, sir.” She liked the hungry way that Vixer and Garowyn were looking at her, too. “Thank you, sir.”

“I like her already,” the female officer remarked, in a clipped military voice — a close imitation of a Core Worlds accent that didn't quite hide her Outer Rim origins. Her eyes kept exploring Seventy-Two's naked body as she continued. “The personnel report from ProCorps said she was good at her duties?”

“Yeah, Cap'n,” Vixer answered. “She likes being fucked and treated rough.”

“I'll bet she does,” Garowyn answered, grinning smugly in pleasure at the thought. Then, slowly, she began to walk around Seventy-Two, inspecting her naked body. “I hear the ProCorps training has become even more. . . thorough.”

In reply, Seventy-Two just stood there, proud of her training, her body, and her identity. She had been taught to accept this treatment — to obey and be admired, to be used and enjoyed however the heroic men and women of the Galactic Empire's Starfleet wanted to treat her.

In return, she gained pleasure from her sexual duties, and from the fact that her obedient service improved the morale and thus the strength of the Imperial military.

She was proud of what she was.

“She has no clothes, Sergeant,” Garowyn observed mildly, slowly running one hand over Seventy-Two's naked ass.

“Lost 'em before she reported aboard, Cap'n,” Vixer shrugged. “Just like the three girls before her. I filed a report with ProCorps, but. . .”

Garowyn chuckled at the obvious lie. “And the report you transmitted said she's committed lots of minor disciplinary infractions,” she added, pinching Seventy-Two's breasts to get a feel for them. “But so did the corporal she's replacing, and she's proved an exemplary little slut.”

“Yeah, Cap'n. Private Essex here's spent most of the trip bein' punished. I think she'll behave now.”

Seventy-Two didn't answer. Vixer had thrown her things in the trash compactor when she reported aboard the transport, and the series of disciplinary charges had been fabricated so he could imprison and humiliate her for the whole length of the trip to Zeta.

But she didn't correct the NCO. She knew her place, and she enjoyed it. Also, apart from the pleasure she felt in satisfying her superiors' sexual urges, the lost equipment and demerits acted as an excuse to allow her to perform extra duties, something she always looked forward to.

She had incurred several automatic fines for the 'mistakes', and she would have to earn the debt back — with interest — by letting Captain Garowyn pimp her out during her off-duty hours.

Seventy-Two had to hide a smile of eager anticipation.

“Very good, SX-51472,” Garowyn nodded, as she came to a stop directly in front or her. “They say you're a qualified fighter pilot and mechanic?”

“Yes, Captain,” Seventy-Two nodded, feeling a tingle between her legs. Every girl in the corps was also a fully-trained Imperial Navy trooper. She hadn't originally trained to be a prostitute.

“You were originally assigned to the TIE Fighter Command, but before you finished basic training you applied for transfer to the Prostitution Corps?”

Seventy-Two's cunt clenched, and she couldn't quite hide the blush that rose to her cheeks at the question. “Yes, Captain. Psychological assessments and corrective therapy helped me realize the best way for me to serve the Empire was on my back.”

“Well, I'm delighted to have you here, SX-51472,” Garowyn smirked. She put one hand to Seventy-Two's shoulder, and gripped her firmly. “Even if you obviously need more training to get up and on your feet after a sleep shift.”

As Seventy-Two blushed in shame, she stepped back, and glanced at the cargo master. “Sergeant Vixer, time to get her through processing.”

Vixer smirked again, walked over to the naked Imperial Prostitute, and reached up, unfastening the chain from her collar, and replacing it with a short leash. “Yes, ma'am. C'mon, Essex.”

“Yes sir,” Seventy-Two agreed obediently as he tugged the leash. She saluted her new commanding officer, then followed the cargo-master across the familiar cargo bay that had been her home for the past five weeks, with her head held high like she'd been trained.

Garowyn fell in step behind, admiring her ass, and the way she walked. Seventy-Two liked that. She liked being appreciated for what she was, and she was pleased that her new commanding officer had the confidence to do that.

Seventy-Two followed Vixer in silence, resisting the urge to run her hand over her damp snatch. She had long gotten used to her permanently hairless pussy, and liked it like it was, smooth on the outside, often wet on the inside — but she also liked the training that meant that she couldn't touch it without permission, except when she was cleaning it after use.

It wasn't far to the area where slaves and other human cargo were processed. She had spent a lot of duty hours here, and she had to suppress a smile of remembered pleasure. She didn't need to be told to stand with her legs apart on the grille, or to lift her hands for the pair of manacles hanging from the ceiling.

Garowyn watched in silent satisfaction.

“So, guess this is your new home, slut,” Vixer grinned, glancing out the viewport at something she couldn't see.

“Yes, sir,” Seventy-Two answered, grinning as he closed the manacles around her slim wrists.

The main purpose of processing was to make sure she wasn't carrying any spice. Seventy-Two bit her lip in pleasure as two fingers probed her asshole, but she accepted it without question. Rebel agents trying to discredit the Empire had tricked some ProCorps troops and newly-purchased Twi'lek slaves into serving as 'spice rontos,' with pouches of ryll and gliterstim hidden in their pussies. The procedure ensured that Seventy-Two wasn't going to be taken advantage of like that.

“You done good aboard the ship, Private,” Sergeant Vixer said, pinching her butt as he ran the scanners over her body. “You ever wonder about applying for a transfer outa ProCorps?”

“Thank you, sir,” Seventy-Two replied. “And no, sir.” She frowned at the question that Vixer had asked, as his fingers worked their way round to the folds of her pussy. Why would she want to stop doing a job she loved?

“There's a story that a lot of you sluts used to be prissy little Rebel bitches who got brainwashed and taught yer place,” he grinned, toying with her clit.

Brainwashed?! Seventy-Two thought. “I don't know about any of the other prissy little Rebel bitches, but I certainly haven't been brainwashed, Sir,” she said indignantly. She had nothing but disdain for most of the current 'prissy little Rebel bitches.'

Vixer laughed at that. “Just a story, I know, but all these weeks we been together, and you never told me your real name, or anything about yourself ...”

“I have been trained to serve the Empire, sir,” she answered, quiet and obedient. “I prefer to focus on my ProCorps duties, and due to the confidentiality protection of the Prostitution Corps, I am not authorized to discuss my former name and identity.”

“Uh-huh?” Vixer nodded, looking at her with slight confusion. Then he stood straight, unshackled her hands, and slapped her ass. “C'mon. Just one thing left to do here.”

“Yes, sir?” Seventy-Two replied, looking up at him in anticipation.

“Come 'ere, slut,” he said, walking across towards the wall where the restraints were stacked, tugging her leash towards him.

She obeyed, half-hoping for a kiss or even a quick fuck — but with an officer watching, she knew that was unlikely. Instead, he produced a transmitter and ran it across the side of her collar, opening the lock and then lifting the heavy shackle away from around her neck.

Vixer gave her an apologetic look. “Cap'n Garowyn wants you naked an' her own collar on you. Besides, this belongs to the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Seventy-Two nodded. She was used to the lack of clothes — she hadn't worn anything except restraints since the freighter left Bastion — but she felt properly naked now, without the shackle on her neck.

“It don't feel right without the collar, huh?” Vixer grinned, his eyes looking her up and down again.

Seventy-Two nodded, blushing. “No, sir, it doesn't.” She bit her lip. “And, th-thank you, sir, for treating me the way I like.”

Vixer grinned, and ruffled her hair in a gesture of genuine affection. “It's been a pleasure, Essex. Did I ever tell you you're one of the best sluts the Empire ever gave me to fuck?”

“The Empire trained me well,” sir, Seventy-Two answered eagerly. “I'm proud to serve.”

“That they did,” Vixer agreed. “Much better than what you used to be, I'll bet.”

“Thanks, sir,” Seventy-Two whispered, pleased by his approval. She was forbidden from discussing her past, but she was a better person now, and she was glad that Sergeant Vixer had noticed — and appreciated.

“Now get outa here,” the sergeant growled. “Cap'n Garowyn, the girl is yours.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Garowyn stepped forward, smiling in pleasure as she locked a new durasteel collar around Seventy-Two's neck, formally taking charge of her. Since the Imperial computers had her full, 3-D body scan, the collar fit perfectly. Then Captain Garowyn attached her leash to the O-ring on the front of the collar. She held the leather handle casually as she took a hand-held scanner from Vixer and entered her authorization code, confirming that she had taken charge of her new piece of human equipment.

Seventy-Two stood in parade stance behind her, patient and eager and dripping with anticipation.

Her pussy throbbed even more as Vixer ran the scanner close over her crotch, uploading Garowyn's authorization to the ident chip implanted there.

Seventy-Two's formal transfer to Zeta Garrison was now complete.

“Come on now, SX-5172,” Captain Garowyn said, answering Vixer’s farewell salute. “Follow me,” she added — somewhat unnecessarily, since she was holding Seventy-Two's leash.

Seventy-Two fell obediently into step, just like she'd been trained.

“Now you enjoy yourself at Zeta, you hear?” Vixer called after her.

“Yes, sir,” Seventy-Two agreed. She was blushing and grinning with joy as she left and marched down the corridor.

Captain Garowyn led her quickly to the freighter's airlock — the one used to dock with shuttles. Most of the transport's crew members were there, helping to move cargo across to the garrison's ship. They were all tough, handsome soldiers, who looked up and grinned as she walked up naked with Captain Garowyn.

“Would you like to say goodbye to them, SX-51472?” Garowyn inquired.

Seventy-Two nodded, gratefully eager. “Yes, Captain.”

Garowyn smiled. “On you go then. Troops, show Private Essex how much you've appreciated her being on board.”

The crew responded eagerly, passing Seventy-Two between them with gropes and hungry kisses. At least two of them even thrust their fingers shamelessly into her wet snatch. They knew she liked that.

She responded to it all enthusiastically. Like every ProCorps trooper being hauled as cargo to a new assignment, she'd been assigned to the crew for the duration of the voyage, and she'd worked hard to please them. The way they were treating her was a clear indication of her success.

She had done her duty by the men and women she was assigned to.

“Okay, playtime's over,” Captain Garowyn said, and the crew released her. Seventy-Two fell into parade stance in front of Captain Garowyn, leash swinging between her breasts, and saw a slim, athletic blonde girl step out of the airlock. She had a bowed head, and she was hauling a repulsor sled that must have been used to move the cargo crates over to Captain Garowyn's shuttle.

She was wearing the tight breeches, high-heeled black leather boots and shiny durasteel corset of a ProCorps trooper — evidently, this was the trooper that Seventy-Two was replacing.

There was no sign of the rest of the blonde's uniform — her tunic and cap, and the rest of her regulation restraints. Instead, she had a shock-collar welded shut around her neck, and heavy binders, also welded closed, that kept her hands cuffed tight behind her back.

Then Seventy Two saw how she was hauling the repulsor cart, leashed up to it by long durasteel chains, fastened to the D-rings on the back of her corset.

Seventy-Two's pussy pulsed in excitement at the sight.

“Corporal,” Garowyn said, grinning at the girl. “Come here and say goodbye to me properly.” Without waiting for the blonde's response, Garowyn stepped forward, grabbing her and making out hungrily with her. The girl responded, unresisting and eager.

Seventy-Two just watched, delighted. ProCorps girls were expected to do other duties when they weren’t having sex. They obviously enjoyed being used, and that translated well to the performance of humiliating menial tasks — but this was the first time she'd seen this particular duty, and she hoped it would be part of her own new assignment.

Captain Garowyn also seemed to be a pretty good kisser.

As Garowyn pushed the girl away, Seventy-Two saw the flash of green eyes on her face, three scars fanned in a vee across her forehead. The girl assumed the parade stance almost instantly, head bowed, but it was too late. Seventy-Two had recognized her.

“Private, ah ... Essex,” Garowyn smiled, “this is Corporal SX-51473, whom you're relieving.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Seventy-Two blushed, noting that Garowyn used Seventy-Three's serial number, rather than a name — evidently, she didn't believe that Imperial Prostitutes needed names.

Seventy-Three just stood there, blonde head bowed and booted feet spread far apart. She looked well-disciplined, even better than when Seventy-Two had last seen her at their graduation, as if the last traces of her personality and free will had been erased forever.

“You two were bunkmates at the Academy, right?” Garowyn asked, looking back and forth between them.

“Yes, Captain.” Seventy-Two had been trained not to add more. The girl she'd once been had known the girl who was now Seventy-Three long before they joined the Empire, but that didn't matter any more.

“Anything you want to say to her?”

“No, Captain.” Seventy-Three was attractive, and had been a good fuck, but like her, she was a ProCorps trooper — they knew their place. The breaking of their emotional bonds and reformation of them to the Empire was part of what made them what they were now.

Seventy-Three let out a moan that sounded almost like despair, but which Seventy-Two knew was one of pleasure and submission.

Seventy-Two also sensed slight disappointment from the crew. She hated to see Imperial Personnel disappointed, especially with her. So she leaned in close to Seventy-Three, and kissed her.

Seventy-Three quickly reciprocated, and they shared a passionate kiss, for their audience's pleasure. Seventy-Two stepped in a little closer, pressing their tits together. She threaded her hands between Seventy-Three's cuffed arms and her durasteel corset, and pulled her in tighter.

After nearly thirty seconds of appreciative cheers, Captain Garowyn halted the display by clearing her throat.

Seventy-Two let her go and stepped away. Both returned to parade rest, and still, neither said anything to the other.

“Run along now, Seventy-Three,” Captain Garowyn grinned, slapping her butt. “It's been great getting to know you.”

The blonde, who was still catching her breath from the lengthy kiss, gave her a look of obedience and arousal. Then she turned and walked down the corridor, where the grinning crew of the transport were waiting to load her up with the last of the cargo, and to play with her in anticipation of her first proper duty shift.

Seventy-Two smiled to herself at the sight. She envied the fun that Seventy-Three would have on the slow journey back to Bastion, but if that was how every ProCorps trooper left the Zeta Garrison, she hoped she was going to enjoy this assignment.

But she kept those thoughts to herself. She just stood at attention, naked in front of her new commanding officer. Only the moist smell of her pussy betrayed how horny she felt.

“Good, Private,” Captain Garowyn said, nodding in approval. “Ready to go?”

“Yes Captain,” she answered back with an eager smile.

“This way, then,” Garowyn said, then turned, and led her across the airlock tube her own ship. Seventy-Two followed dutifully.

“Walk forward and place your crotch against the ID scanner,” Garowyn instructed. “The Shadow Chaser is my favorite plaything, and now your duty is to please me as well, so you might as well get to know each other.”

Seventy-Two obeyed, standing on tip-toes to raise her pussy to the height of the computer scanner, twitching with excitement as she felt the sensor pulses probe her snatch to scan the ID chip embedded there. She also knew that Garowyn was eyeing her butt with great pleasure as she stood behind her, while the personal shuttle's hatch opened.

She suspected that Garowyn would be the first partner to take her at the garrison. She might even put the Shadow Chaser on autopilot and fuck her on the way there.

She was surprised, however, to find the cargo area of the shuttle much smaller than she'd expected from her knowledge of the design. About two-thirds of the main hold had been converted into a small gym.

“I like to work out, and I know that ProCorps troopers are trained to work out a lot, too,” Garowyn said, putting a hand on the small of Seventy-Two's back, and leading her forward to the flight-deck hatch. “Now, at the front, we have the bridge — you're still flight-rated, right?”

“My ProCorps training means I'm incapable of combat,” Seventy-Two answered. “But I am a qualified ferry pilot, Captain.”

“Good. You'll be doing duty as my personal pilot. That means I get you to myself more often, and you learn quicker to obey me.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Now, the Shadow Chaser is special. She isn't quite like any other ship. So I probably have to train you on how to treat her right.”

Seventy-Two's pussy throbbed in helpless arousal. “Yes, Captain,” she agreed quickly, bowing her head to hide the blush.

On her service record, Seventy-Two already had several hundred flight hours logged aboard this very ship, but that was from before the Academy. As shocking as it seemed now, her best friend had stolen the ship and then given it to her as a plaything; and Seventy-Two herself — or rather, the bad girl she was then — had done her very best to murder Garowyn when she came to claim her stolen property.

She felt shame, humiliation, and unending gratitude to the Empire for her training.

Seventy-Two was especially grateful that Garowyn was ignoring her past, and treating her simply as the loyal, unnamed ProCorps trooper she'd become.

That was how she was meant to be treated — how she liked it. That was why the Empire had trained her this way, rather than letting her make the mistake of becoming a TIE pilot.

Garowyn smirked. “Good. Now, astern, we have the bunk room,” she said, leading Seventy-Two back through the hold and down the passage into the rear of the hull. “This one’s mine, that one down there will be yours. Your uniform is waiting there. Communal shower, as you can see. Aft, we have the engine room, but you don’t need to see that, do you?”

“No, Captain.”

Garowyn chuckled. “Do you just agree automatically with everything I say?”

Seventy-Two frowned slightly. “I guess, Captain.”

“You're a credit to your training, slut.” Garowyn seemed pleased, and that made Seventy-Two happy. Garowyn tweaked her nipple, and took the leash off the front of her collar. “Time for you to show me what you can do in the gym now, slut.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Seventy-Two followed her back into behind the hold, where she pulled on a tight stretch leotard, and a pair of jogging shoes, all under the Captain’s watchful gaze.

“Now, show me what you've got. If I leave before you're finished, complete your exercises, then wash, and get dressed, and join me on the flight deck.”

“Yes, Captain,” Seventy-Two grinned.

She threw herself into her usual routine. She started with a twenty-minute uphill run on the treadmill, followed by five minutes of intensive weight work, and then fifteen minutes on the exercise swoop. Then came half an hour of aerobics and ballet training.

When she had finished, she was covered with sweat, and her skin-tight leotard was as wet as her pussy after a day on duty, revealing every detail of her body from her hard, aroused nipples to the slit between her legs.

Garowyn had left while she was doing her warm-down stretches, and Seventy-Two obediently walked back through to the bunk area again on her own. Stripping off completely, she stepped into the shower, and began to wash.

As she showered, she considered the process that had made her into an Imperial ProCorps trooper. It wasn't something she thought about much, but the Captain and the Sergeant's comments had reminded her. As she leaned against the wall and used the sponge as an excuse to play a little with her clit, she relived the memories. She had once been someone else; a Jedi Knight, fighter pilot, and near to a complete breakdown after the manipulation and abuse of her life in Rebel territory. But the training she had received at the Imperial Academy had transformed her.

She was much happier now.

After just a couple weeks of training, she had applied to transfer to the Prostitution Corps. There she discovered her true nature, learning to embrace her sexuality and submissive tendencies. She quickly forgot about her stupid plan to become a TIE fighter pilot, and let the ProCorps Academy turn her into the person she should have always been. As a freshly graduated ProCorps trooper, she had still expected to be assigned to Commander Fel, the High Moff. He had been her lover before the Academy, and she had half-thought that the entire process had been designed to bring them closer together.

Instead, she had been assigned to a series of ordinary military units, to provide sexual services for common soldiers. Zeta Garrison, one of the furthest outposts of the Empire, was her third tour of duty, a year-long mission after a series of shorter assignments.

In the ProCorps Academy, she had given herself mind and body to the Empire. Her first assignment had been to a Star Destroyer, then to a small, remote TIE fighter base. Next she found herself spending long, exhausting shifts being fucked by every man in a stormtrooper legion. Through it all she had obeyed without question, just like she had been trained, and of course, she had loved every minute of it.

She knew that, after several years, the best and hardest-working ProCorps soldiers were sometimes rewarded with permanent assignments as toys for senior officers, but while she always tried to do her duty well enough to be considered, that was simply a matter of being a good Imperial.

Seventy-Two had no ambition to be chosen — and even if she was, she felt no particular desire for High Moff Fel, beyond a ProCorps trooper's loyal love for their head of state, and absolute automatic obedience to her Supreme Commander. Yes, she understood that it would be a great honor to serve High Moff Fel directly, but she loved and obeyed every member of the Imperial military now, all the way down to the newest recruit.

Turning her into an ordinary front-line prostitute had been the move that proved the complete success of her re-education. Her willing acceptance of the new orders proved that her discipline and obedience were driven by genuine loyalty to the Galactic Empire, not simply by a desire for sex with Moff Fel.

The most important thing about her new attitude was that, contrary to anything Sergeant Vixer had heard, it hadn't been imposed on her by brainwashing. It came from her own desires. She had just needed a little help from the Empire to get in touch with them.

At the ProCorps Academy, she had learned that what she really loved was serving and obeying the Empire, no matter what — not having a relationship with one man. Unless the Empire assigned her to one specific man, that was.

Or woman, she reminded herself. Her bisexuality was something else the Empire had taught her to accept, something else she loved the Empire for.

She also liked the fact that everything about a ProCorps soldier's life was so well organized. She needed no accommodation of her own. She would have a small sleeping mat that she could unroll, but she doubted she'd need it on many nights.

When she had finished washing, Seventy-Two stepped back out into the bunk area, and dried herself briskly with a towel from the rack. She liked the fact that it bore the Imperial insignia and a batch/item code on one corner, matching the sigil tattoo on her own belly.

After that, she began to get dressed. Someone had put out the specially-adapted uniform of a ProCorps soldier on the bunk.

First came the chastity belt, a thin durasteel yoke that went around her waist and crotch, with a soft plastex inner face. It locked magnetically and was one hundred percent effective in preventing access to her pussy. She was expected to wear it at all times except when someone paid to unlock it, but the shuttle crew had taken it off her, along with everything else except the heavy stun-collar they’d made her wear — not that she was really complaining about that.

She suspected things might be different in her new assignment, but she wasn't complaining about that, either.

For now, it simply felt good to have the first custom-fit item of her uniform back. It simply felt right to have the belt tight around her waist, the smooth curve pressed seamlessly against her damp pussy.

Then, she wrapped the corset of durasteel plates around her body, holding her breath in as it locked in place, ensuring she kept her stomach tight, her waist narrow, and her back parade-ground straight.

After that, she locked on the collar. In contrast to the heavy durasteel restraint she'd won aboard the transport, this one was designed to be worn under her clothes. The main part was a tall choker around her neck, relatively slim and lightweight for concealment inside the neck of her uniform, but at its base there were thicker, heavier gorget sections that sat tight around her shoulders.

Then came the cuffs around her wrists — tight, shiny and less than a centimeter thick, but surprisingly heavy. The left-hand one was inscribed with a chrono window, while the right-hand had a comlink grille. Like the collar, they were standard parts of her new uniform, and to anyone who glimpsed them while she was on duty, they would just seem to be functional and attractive jewelry.

Next, she tugged on her tight jodhpurs with their flared-out hips, and the heavily-constructed uniform jacket, specially tailored for emphasizing the curves of her hips, butt, waist and breasts. The collar of the tunic was a little wide, to accommodate the durasteel shackle underneath, but it hid the choker well enough.

She buckled the leather belt. It locked magnetically and would not open again without an Imperial code. That was followed by the knee-boots with their eighteen-centimeter spiked heels. They tightened once she'd tugged them on. Concealed in the nerfhide were durasteel cuffs shackling her legs at the ankles and just below the knees. Then it was time for the short nerfhide gloves. They stopped just short of her chrono and comlink, and weren’t part of her standard-issue uniform, but an addition for her new role as Captain Garowyn's personal pilot. They were probably the only thing she would wear on Zeta that wasn't bondage-gear of some sort.

Finally, she hooked the metal curves of the communications transceivers round behind her ears, slotting the speaker earphones into place. Then she began swaying to the music that drifted slowly into her thoughts, as she plugged her spectacles into place. With the transceivers tucked behind her ears, the slim, straight arms of the frame fit into holes at the front of the metal earpieces, uplinking the glasses directly to the Imperial HoloNet.

An eye-blink later, the lenses came alive with information. She had been trained to read the ultra-small type that flashed across her field of vision. Instantly, she was learning the likes and dislikes of her first several appointments at Zeta Garrison. Captain Garowyn was at the top of the list. There were also the transparent patterns that she had been trained to ignore. She knew both helped her relax and perform her duties better, so she accepted the Empire's help like a good ProCorps trooper. Seventy-Two continued to prepare for duty, swaying slightly to the music all the time.

Last, she pulled on her uniform cap, took a few second to check herself out in the mirror, then walked out. She kept her head held high, the spiked heels giving her extra height and poise. Imperial Prostitute SX-51472 was not fully complete unless she was in her uniform, and now she was completely ready to serve the Empire ... in whatever way Zeta Garrison's troops needed her.

She was, in all but name, a slave of the Empire now, and she was much happier than she had ever been as Jaina Solo.




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