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Mauling the Meatbag	By : Kooriv Category: Star Wars (All) > General Views: 12644 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Mauling the Meatbag
- 1
The expertly-crafted assassination droid HK-47 stalked through the hallways of the Ebon Hawk, his algorithm processors circulating restlessly, and he felt the need to cradle his blaster rifle to his chest plate. It was an unusual sensation that had been running through his computer core since finding himself in the clumsy grip of the fool Ithorian on Tatooine. Having left that dustbowl world behind only scant hours ago, HK-47 had been unable to compute the feeling that something about his existence was missing.

He entered the starboard bunk room, hoping to find the irritating astromech, which insisted on wandering around the ship at will, to give it a good kick up the dorsal flange retainer. Instead, he found the Jedi female sitting on the outermost cot, with her head in her pale hands. HK-47 recognised this position as a sign of Human emotional fragility, and performed a quick one-eighty, intending to depart for the steerage hold immediately.

“Oh, it’s you.” The tone was trembling at three octaves higher than nominal, though HK-47 recognised the voice as belonging to the sitting woman. Turning to face her, he discovered she was looking up at him, her fleshy facial sacs flushed with a red pigmentation. “I thought you were in the hold.”

“Assessment: I was in the hold, mistress, until my servomotors conveyed me to this area of the ship. I hope in no small amount of time I will be allowed to undertake the return journey, so that I can shut myself down and avoid any unfortunate instances of vocal communication.”

The Jedi woman did not seem to understand his summary of the situation, instead getting to her feet and pacing the floor in a state of some agitation. “Do you like the ship, HK?”

“Confession: Mistress, anything other than the dreary hovel in which I was kept by that fool Yuka Laka is a relief to my cooling systems. I had no desire to spend my remaining days picking sand particles out of my joints, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

“Yes,” she replied distantly. “I’m glad we left Tatooine.”

Despite his innate desire to depart from the female’s company, HK-47 experienced a spike of interest. “Query: Did you also wish to avoid the fate of having your bodily crevices sand-blasted for the foreseeable future?”

She turned a frown to him, as if not sure how to take his comment. HK-47 decided this was a reasonable response; few meatbags tended to appreciate his superior sense of things. “I met my mother there, HK. She’s ill.”

The comment did not suggest the need for a response, so HK-47 did not give one. After a moment, the Jedi woman continued. “I gave her father’s holocron. I wouldn’t have done that if it had been in my possession even a few days ago. I wished her well. I’m changing. He’s changing me.”

HK-47 paused, allowing the comment to filter through his processors. She was clearly referring to a member of the Ebon Hawk’s ad-hoc crew, and the only viable candidate seemed to be the Republic soldier—his own Master. “Query: How so, mistress?”

“I feel different around him. Like before....” Here, she stopped, as if unable, or perhaps unwilling to continue. She let out a long breath of air. “Now he’s off running around the treetops. I just feel frustrated, HK.”

“Confiding Statement: My logic processors are in a similar, though far more complex, state of indecision, mistress. I am quite unable to place the cause, which itself is adding to my quandary. It is most infuriating.”

The Jedi woman tilted her head to regard him. “I didn’t know droids could feel.”

“Clarification: Forgive the miscommunication, mistress. When I speak of feelings of rage or anger, I do not refer to emotions expressed by meatbags such as yourself. These are merely quantifiable conditions of my internal processes.”

The female’s emotional peak was lessening, and her body language had become looser and more open. “You’re a very unique kind of droid,” she said.

“Statement: Oh, mistress, my flattery modules are literally suffering a cataclysmic meltdown at your compliment. I am glad somebody has noticed my unrivalled artistry and sophistication.”

“But you can’t remember who your Master was, or even what you were built for?”

“Recitation: Alas, mistress, my memory core has suffered seemingly irreparable damage, and I am unable to call up any records pertaining to the point of origin and function of my initial programming. Pained Addendum: This is most vexing, mistress.”

Her eyes were roving in their sockets, taking in HK-47’s outward appearance, as if his rust-colored shell could provide some clues to his identity. Although futile, HK-47 allowed the Human to conduct her rudimentary inspection. “You have protocol functions, don’t you?” she asked, which HK-47 affirmed. “You’re good at communication; perhaps you were built as a companion for your Master.”

“Mendacious Conjecture: Yes, mistress, that is most certainly one of many thousands of possibilities.”

“I suppose not,” she shrugged. “I could just do with some company.”

“Admission: I am afraid I would be unable to assist in that regard, mistress. After all, I am only a simple, exquisitely-designed protocol droid.”

The woman continued to study HK-47’s shell. “But you don’t know what you’re capable of, if parts of your memory are missing,” she pointed out.

“Weary Resignation: Mistress, over the past nine hours my innards have endured such a number of probes, surveys and general pokings that I could be mistaken for a Corellian call-girl. But I suppose if you think you might profit from such an endeavor, I shall not hesitate to facilitate you.”

“I think I just need a distraction,” the woman said, moving forwards as HK-47 reluctantly deactivated the magna-locks anchoring his chassis in place. Exposing his computer core, HK-47 watched as she pored over the intricate collection of wires and servos with a thoughtful expression. Rubbing her chin, she set to work, her dextrous fingers sliding inside his torso cavity with surprising skill—for a meatbag.

HK-47 allowed his systems to idle over the next twenty minutes—though he covertly monitored every one of the woman’s moves, in case she happened to dislodge something important—until his aural sensors picked up a soft gasp released from her mouth. “Statement: Have you completed your inspection?”

The woman straightened up, and HK-47 noted the pinkish flush had not lifted from her countenance. In fact, it had become more pronounced. “I... think so,” she said in a halting voice. “HK, you seem to have some... unusual subroutines in your control cluster.”

The droid was not alarmed; there was no chance her perfunctory explorations had uncovered anything below his surface personality, and his assassination protocols were so deep-seated even that blasted astromech wouldn’t have been able to prise them out in a standard month. “Conversational Query: Unusual, mistress?”

She seemed unsure of what to do with her upper appendages, continually rubbing and fiddling with her hands in a most awkward display of behaviour. “Do you remember anything of your previous service? Any jobs that might have been outside a protocol droid’s range of skills?”

“Defensive Statement: Mistress, I must assure you that very few tasks are outside of my considerable skill set. To what are you referring?”

“Well... oh, blast it!” the woman huffed, and peered closer at the data reader she had been using to navigate his programming clusters. “HK, activate subroutine Five-Nine-Dash-Ninety-Nine.”

HK-47 suppressed a burst of surprise at the nature of the request, but complied all the same. He saw no shame in it, but registered a look of wide-eyed shock on the Jedi woman as he launched the subroutine, and extended the segmented probic arm from his pelvic junction. A smooth, tubular shaft that could extend to over a foot in length, the lower-body interface was a modified computer jack HK-47 had kept secreted for as long as he could remember. Its true point and purpose eluded him, though he was well aware of certain prurient uses the telescoping arm could be put to.

So, it appeared, was the Jedi woman. Her ocular lenses were fixed on the arm, which stood ramrod stiff at a sixty degree angle, almost pointing directly at her glowing face. The tip was capped with a burnished, mushroom-shaped dome capable of interfacing with most computer outlets. “Query,” HK-47 said in a neutral tone, “are you satisfied, mistress?”

The brown-haired woman blinked, still fixated on the probic arm. “What do you use it for, HK?” she said carefully.

“Explanation: Computer interface, mistress. It is a universal probic attachment capable of integrating with a large number of ports and sockets of standard design.”

“What else?”

“Curious Extrapolation: I believe, mistress, though I have not had the opportunity to verify this first-hand, that such attachments are fitted to personal pleasure droids, for the purpose of delivering sexual gratification to their owners upon request. Addendum: Why a droid would be considered for such a task is beyond my programming.”

The woman glanced into his photoreceptors. “Sometimes a droid can be the closest thing to a companion,” she said in a strained voice.

HK-47 was not an unintelligent droid. His data core was massive, and he could process connections at lightspeed, rivalling the abilities of the famed G0-T0 infrastructure droids. Thus, he knew exactly what the Jedi woman was asking, and why she had taken so precise an interest in his special modification.

He also knew exactly how to use his Human-droid interface protocols.

Stepping forward, HK-47 gripped his probic arm by its long shaft, keeping it pointed directly at Bastila. “Statement: I am equipped to serve, mistress,” he said, altering the pitch and cadence of his vocabulator to introduce a lustrous quality to his voice. “You may consider this droid fully armed and operational.”

Bastila was momentarily stunned by the droid’s change in behaviour, but rallied spectacularly. She closed the gap between them, and placed a thin hand on the rounded nib of the droid’s probic shaft, as if taking hold of a swoop bike’s shift stick. “I could do with a little distraction,” she said, and HK-47 recognised the tone as that of a woman in the first stages of a Human mating ritual. He was pleased by the result.

“Correction: There is nothing ‘little’ about this droid, meatbag,” he stated.

Bastila eyed him for a moment, then dropped from view. HK-47 readjusted his photoreceptors to find her kneeling on the deck, her hand wrapped around his rigid probe. “I’m glad,” she said, “but ‘meatbag’ has to go.” She opened her mouth and leaned forwards, letting the tip of HK’s shaft pass between her lips. She bunched her jaw and pressed her mouth to the metallic rod, sucking in her high cheeks.

HK-47 did not understand why the female was simulating the act of fellatio—the purpose of which, to prepare the Human male for sexual intercourse, was lost on a droid—but he allowed her to continue. His response package told him to follow the female’s lead in such matters, no matter how whimsical. “Query: What is wrong with ‘meatbag’, mistress? I believe it is an apt term for your kind.”

“Perhaps,” Bastila said, popping her lips free of the shaft for a moment, “but not very sexy.” She resumed fellating his probic arm, lathering the surface in her internal oral fluid and bobbing her head rapidly.

“Request for Clarification: By what term should I refer to you, mistress?”

Bastila took a long and low suck on HK’s pipe before replying. “Mistress is good enough,” she decided, then added, “or how about schutta?”

“Definition: An example of Twi’lek terminology. The word denotes a sexually promiscuous member of Rylothian society, and has largely negative connotations.”

The brown-haired woman smiled broadly around the rod in her mouth. “Exactly.”

HK-47 gave the equivalent of an internal shrug. There was no reason not to indulge the female at this point. “Statement: Very well, schutta. I shall refer to you by your chosen nomenclature.”

She smiled again, though added in a warning tone, “Only for now, HK. Not in front of the others.”

“Statement: As you desire, schutta.”

His words seemed to galvanize her, as Bastila sucked more passionately upon his bronzium rod, his sensors picking up soft mewls and gasps of pleasure as she worked her mouth over the shaft. HK-47 studied her technique carefully, matching it to those retained in his databanks, and concluded that, while inexperienced, the Jedi woman was gifted at the practice, and would surely make her Human lovers exceedingly happy.

“Complimentary Statement: You are performing at a high standard, schutta,” he said. “Your technique is commendable, and were I a male of a mammalian species, I would surely be ready to achieve orgasm due to your efforts.”

Bastila giggled, and pressed her lips to the tip of his rod, simulating a loving kiss. “That’s nice, HK,” she smiled, and got to her feet—somewhat shakily, the droid noticed. “But I want to learn more about your technique.”

“Statement: As you desire, schutta. I am programmed with a full package of sexual techniques, and my memory banks contain the full texts of such works as the Zeltron’sutra and Sixty-Nine Ways to Please Your Lamproid Lover, and can readily—”

He cut himself off as Bastila placed a finger to his vocabulator. “No,” she said in a hushed tone. “I want you to show me.”

“Clarification: You desire a practical demonstration, schutta?”

She laughed again, and nodded. “Mm-hm.”

“Additional Clarification: And I am free to use any methods necessary?”

“Oh, you bet.”

“Statement: HK-47 is ready to service you,” the droid said, and triggered the next phase of his subroutine. Information flowed through his verbobrain at the speed of light, and his plan of action coalesced behind his photoreceptors.

Without any further warning, HK-47 grasped Bastila’s upper arms in his manipulators, and spun her around so that she was facing the far wall of the dorm. She gave a yelp of surprise, but not of fear, so the droid continued, pressing his metallic body to hers. His probic arm nestled against her backside, and he registered a spike in her pleasure at the touch, even through the fabric of her fatigues.

Her clothing posed a problem if intercourse was to commence, though HK-47, as ever, had a solution. Applying precise pressure with his pincer-like fingers, the droid grasped the collar of Bastila’s uniform and tugged sharply. The fabric tore under his grip, peeling away from her body in a ragged line that exposed the right-hand portion of her torso. She yelped again. “Statement: This is the most efficient method of divesting you of your garments, schutta.”

The woman arched her body into his, lolling her head on his spindly shoulder joint. “I figured,” she said, gazing up at him. He inclined his head, and tore at her clothing again, shredding the covering of her right knee in three places. She shifted her crimson tabard to one side, and HK-47 tore at the fabric of her crotch, ripping it from between her legs. Bastila shivered, which the droid registered as a response to the filtrated air of the bunk room on her exposed private area.

“Query: Do you require me to increase the temperature?” HK-47 said.

Bastila raised her arms above her head, stroking her hands along the sides of the droid’s head casing. “Not literally,” she purred, and dropped one hand to the tear in her dusky pants. HK-47 watched with interest as the Jedi woman inserted her middle finger into her exposed vagina, and noted her body temperature increased several degrees as a result. “Get the idea?” she whispered.

“Confirmation: I do.”

Bastila continued to manually pleasure herself, working her finger deeper inside her own body until her knuckle was pressed against her pubic bone. HK-47 monitored the frequency and angle of each thrust of her digit, and extrapolated the woman’s optimal speed and depth. The result was something he would endeavour to replicate.

The Jedi was grinding herself shamelessly against his metallic frame, her finger still plunged between her labia, her bared chest heaving with sexual stimulation. HK decided that it would soon be time to introduce himself into the proceedings.

“I need it,” Bastila murmured. “I need it now.” She withdrew her finger and grasped his probic arm firmly.

“Statement: I will give it to you, schutta,” he vowed. The spindly droid angled his robotic hips as Bastila tugged his rod towards her opening, and together they assumed a suitable position. HK pressed the tip of his shaft to Bastila’s labia, and the woman let out a moan of pleasure, which increased in volume and lustre when he penetrated her several inches deep. It was the kind of sound he had observed in the examples of holopornography saved to his memory banks, and seemed to be a favourite among male audiences.

Holding Bastila’s body tightly around the waist, HK exerted his servomotors and lifted her off the deck and into his embrace, impaling her more thoroughly on his shaft in the process. She let out another moan, and clutched at his arms for support. His frame had not been designed to be held so intimately, though the Jedi woman managed to make herself comfortable, judging by the ever-increasing stimulation of her body.

“That feels good, HK,” she cried, “it’s so thick!” HK-47 identified this as an example of talking dirty—largely a method by which a sexual partner kept themselves focused on the moment of pleasure by vocalizing their physical sensations. “It’s so flarking thick!”

“Statement: This pleases me, schutta. Your body is physically attractive, and your vagina is activating my pleasure sensors and stimulus packages.”

“Force, you fucking droid! Use your databanks, will you?” she cried, using HK’s arms as leverage to thrust herself upon his rod, her womanhood widening with every penetration.

The droid accessed his encyclopaedic modules, and calculated what the woman was asking for. “Statement: I’m fucking your cunt,” HK said. “My cock is inside your twat, and it feels fucking stellar.”

Bastila let out a laugh tinged by pleasure, and she rocked herself more fervently on his metallic attachment. “That’s it! That’s good,” she cried.

“Statement: Thank you, schutta.”

“Keep going!”

The droid continued to mine his dictionaries for choice words and phrases from across the Republic, all the while letting his Jedi lover bounce madly on his phallic shaft. All too soon, however, he noticed she was tiring, and realized she could not keep up the furious pace in her position. The droid soon remedied the situation, taking hold of the woman’s right thigh and hoisting her leg upwards to take her full weight. She leaned against him, resting her head on the side of his carapace, undulating her hips to rock his rod inside her.

Accessing his documented holopornography again, HK added a new assignment to his roster, and activated the servomotors in his hip joints. Shifting his hips upwards, HK was able to penetrate Bastila more deeply, and assumed a steady rhythm of intercourse. “Query: Is this fucking satisfactory, schutta?” he asked.

“Yes, oh yes, keep doing that!” Bastila yelled, her body jiggling with every thrust of his mechno-phallus. “And call me a schutta again!”

“Statement: You are a fucking schutta and you are currently being fucked like one. I hope this pleases you,” he said.

Bastila’s hands came up to her jiggling tits, and she began to play with the fleshy sacs as HK rocked her. She pinched her pink nipples between forefinger and thumb, seeming to enjoy the small spike of pain this caused her.

The assassin droid had never been able to calculate a sapient’s propensity for pain—his victims had always protested quite loudly against injury to their bodies, so the self-infliction of pain seemed to run counter to his experiences. However, his databanks offered up some interesting ideas.

By now Bastila was furiously kneading and squeezing her breasts, her pleasure doubling, and HK decided to assist her. Ensuring she was safely balanced on his pumping rod, he removed his hand from her waist and drew it up to her slim, pale-skinned neck. Momentarily the woman panicked, perhaps thinking the droid meant her inordinate harm, but when he applied gentle pressure without cutting off her air supply, she seemed to understand his intention. “Mmm, you’re inventive, droid,” she smiled.

HK squeezed a little harder, causing Bastila to gurgle out her next moan of pleasure, feeling her breaths forcing their way past the blockage caused by his metallic fingers. The woman was panting raggedly, and her internal temperature was starting to peak. “Rhetorical Query: Do you like me choking you, schutta?” he intoned. “You deserve to be choked, schutta.”

This seemed to spur Bastila on, thrusting herself down onto his piston-like phallus with wild bucks of her wide hips. HK maintained his optimal speed, feeling the woman drawing close to the plateau of her pleasure. Clutching at the arm around her neck, she used her other hand to resume her manual stimulation, fingering the tiny nub just above her stretched vagina. HK had little information on this spot, though he recognised it as a point of great pleasure for the woman. He watched as she rubbed and squeezed at the nub, her moans coming out now as shrieks which were undoubtedly ringing through the adjoining corridor.

With her orgasm building, HK decided he did not want to injure Bastila in her throes of passion, and set her gently onto her feet. Momentarily confused, the woman let out another shriek as the droid bent her over, his lubricated shaft still lodged deep inside her vagina. Spreading his legs to gain purchase in his new position, HK-47 resumed fucking the wild-haired brunette, snapping his hips against her jiggling buttocks. According to his records, this sexual position had no official name, though was generally referred to on many worlds by whatever domesticable species resided there. Currently, the most common colloquialism for the position was “gizka style”, which HK thought unnecessarily quaint.

Regardless of its name, Bastila seemed to enjoy the position, howling and squealing into the deck as HK plundered her contracting vagina. Her orgasm came hard, rocking her body and almost dumping her to the floor if HK had loosened his grip. She screamed incoherently, and HK felt her vagina pulling fiercely at his rod, likely to stimulate a simultaneous orgasm in the male. HK, however, continued to fuck her as she rode out her climax, keeping a tight hold of her wobbling hips until her shaking subsided.

“Oh, Force!” she cried when she had her breathing under control. “That was amazing!” HK considered the possibility that it was a signal to end their intercourse, though Bastila’s body continued to respond to his thrusts, bucking back against his shaft. “You’re full of surprises, HK.”

“Statement: I am flattered, schutta. Query: Would you like to continue?”

Bastila reached back and brought the flat of her palm down on her left buttock, producing a loud slapping sound. “Force, yes! Don’t you dare stop!” She took hold of her calves, bent almost double, and wiggled her backside into HK’s thrusts.

“Supplication: I have no intention of stopping, schutta, although I must remind you that the Ebon Hawk will not remain devoid of meatbags for long.”

“Oh, they’ll be playing with the walking carpets for ages yet,” the brunette replied, and squealed loudly as HK delivered a particularly hard thrust into her juicy cunt. “Come on, don’t you want to find out what other protocols you’ve got hidden in there?”

HK considered this; though he had no intention of revealing his deeper functions, he supposed that he might have additional sexual skills he had not yet run checks on. And, with the screaming brunette impaled on his probic arm, he decided that there was no time like the present.

* * * *

Elsewhere aboard the docked freighter, the utility droid T3-M4 went about his work. His aural sensors had been picking up unusual sounds emanating from the starboard cabin for the past twenty-five standard minutes, though he had chosen not to investigate; he was aware of the assassin droid’s distaste for him, and knew better than to disturb the unbalanced rust-bucket.

However, the little droid remained curious, and considered that, should the HK droid depart from the cabin, he would inspect the scene, and perhaps attempt to involve himself in whatever activity the violent automaton had discovered.

Whistling happily to himself, T3-M4 trundled off down the corridor, cataloguing the interesting and high-pitched squeals that echoed throughout the ship.
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Mauling the Meatbag