Phasma climbed the wide, white steps up to the door of the Corellia Private Ladies’ Club with a mounting sense of pleasant anticipation. It was her first day of shore leave in months. Having concluded some tedious but necessary paperwork aboard ship, she had lunched, showered and taken her usual route through the capital city to the discreet wooden doors of the finest members’ club on the Core worlds. Some men would beg to differ, but Phasma had always been largely unconcerned by the opinions of men whether they were begging or not. Besides, no male clients were allowed inside the establishment to form an opinion. The door opened for her as if by magic and she slid the stylish matte black card from her pocket on reflex.
‘Captain,’ murmured the proprietress, Moa Ventra, taking the card, scanning it and tucking it into a pocket. Moa was a tall, aging Twi’lek who valiantly fought her encroaching years with layers of makeup and corsetry strong enough to withstand the gravitational pull of a small sun. Her voice was silky and she treated Phasma with the delicately-gauged deference of a powerful woman whose job it was to make other powerful women feel more important than she. Phasma's club card had a rare silver strip down one side; she was by now familiar with the social strategies of women like Moa Ventra.
'Moa,’ said Phasma congenially, by way of greeting. ‘Fabulous dress.’ Phasma cared little for dresses, but she cared very much about staying in Moa's good graces.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ purred the woman, touching its electric blue folds as she swept along the foyer next to Phasma. ‘And may I say, your recent promotion suits you.’ Phasma smiled. A slender girl in a wispy gauze dress floated by them, smelling like camellias. She gave both women a deferential head nod as she passed, shrinking in on herself. 'A new acquisition,’ Moa said. ‘Very promising.’
Very spineless, Phasma thought to herself. She did not need to say it out loud. Moa knew what she liked.
'I'll start with a steam bath and a massage today,’ Phasma said. She had the time, and several weeks of pay; she could extend her usual ritual of a drink and a girl into a whole, luxurious afternoon. Moa inclined her tentacled head in acknowledgment, ushered Phasma through the appropriate door, and then subtly disappeared.
As Phasma made her way to the bathhouse, the air grew thicker and warmer and the persistent irritations of her job fell away one by one. The wretchedly inadequate new batch of fresh stormtrooper meat faded into insignificance as she slipped into a vacant cubicle to disrobe. Hux's prissy, pedantic voice, gone like a wisp of smoke as she donned a thin robe and walked through to the first warm room. The ridiculous drama of the Ren boy drained away while she hung up her robe and took a seat on the wooden bench. She had been weeks on the Finaliser, trying to whip her stormtroopers into something approaching fighting order. Dogged by bureaucratic delays, hassled by pen-pushing Hux and desperately bored by the injunction from above to run only simulated training exercises. It pleased her greatly to know that were Hux and Ren to show up at the club doors, they would be politely and firmly dispatched from the premises.
She soaked in solitary bliss for a while, the steam permeating her muscles and plastering her hair to her forehead. The baths were quiet at this time of day and she relished it after so long in close proximity to the Finaliser's vast population. A dip in the cold pool stole the breath from her, and then she moved into the hottest room for a while. When she was finally ready for her massage, she was languid from the wet heat.
A muscular Zeltron woman arranged Phasma face down on the massage table and spent the next hour working her over with strong hands. Phasma's physical conditioning regimen was unparalleled, and she made time for regular physiotherapy, but the masseuses at the ladies’ club had quite a different skill set. The subtle intelligence of the club's inner workings ensured that no client had to express their preferences more than once. As Phasma desired, the masseuse moved from a relaxing massage of superficial muscle layers to a luxurious and careful caressing. Neck, lower back, inner thighs and feet, hands and scalp and wrists. Protocol prohibited clients from touching the masseuses; this was an appetiser.
Phasma's clothes had been brought to her. She dressed and made her way to the bar, humming with gentle anticipation. She was several floors up, and from a reclining seat in a bay window she could see across Corellia’s old town and right to the river, where pleasure boats scudded along with white sails bowing in the wind. The sky was a clear, deep blue. Phasma ordered a brandy with ice and ginger and sipped it slowly. Her mind wandered with amiable randomness. A filmy curtain separated her little nook from the rest of the lounge. The quiet hum of female voices lulled her, gentle conversation cut here and there with a throaty laugh or a softly-delivered promise. A pouty boy with his hair in dark waves discreetly topped up her drink, his big, long-lashed eyes cast modestly downwards. She finished her refill.
As if summoned by the Force, a Terran girl drew the curtain aside and knelt by the window seat to speak to Phasma. She wore the silver-grey tunic of the wait staff, and her long, blonde hair was twisted into a simple bun.
'Miss Ventra wonders if you would like to visit the newest of the young ladies today,’ she said.
‘What's the catch?’ Phasma asked intrigued; Moa's recommendations were usually so confident that she did not feel compelled to verify her selections.
‘She's rather unconventional,’ the girl said. ‘Untrained, but Miss Ventra suggests that you might enjoy her rough edges.’
'I trust Moa,’ shrugged Phasma. After weeks in space she wasn’t inclined to be picky. She might even have taken the right kind of boy. The girl slipped a room key into Phasma's hand and withdrew. Number nine. Phasma rose and made her way through the door at the back of the lounge. The spicy ginger of her drink lay heavy on her tongue. When she pushed open the door of suite number nine, another spicy scent assailed her; a desert flower perfume, rich and evocative.
The girl sat on a chair by the window, looking out through the curtains over Corellia. She belatedly stood upon Phasma's entrance. She was young, a slender foal of a girl with dark hair and a round, determined face. Her dress was thin and sleeveless and of a rather plain fabric. The girl wore no makeup. Phasma saw that efforts had been made to give her the appearance of provincial, untamed beauty. It was a good look.
There was a brief pause as Phasma closed the door behind her and kicked off her boots. The girl did not move towards her, nor did she adopt the smooth, welcoming smile that Moa’s girls were trained to present.
‘I'm Rey,’ she said, with a note of hesitance. ‘I'll be your companion today.’ She was not yet used to her script.
'Rey,’ said Phasma, strolling across the room to take a look at her. She caught the girl's chin between finger and thumb. The girl bridled a little, unaccustomed to being handled. Well. Phasma was happy to break her in. She took a seat in the wing-backed chair by the window, her black shirt whispering against the plush silver velvet.
‘D’you want a drink?’ Rey asked. It sounded peremptory. Her pointed chin lifted with a hint of humiliation. This, Phasma thought, was the self-conscious posture of a girl somewhat ashamed to be selling herself but too proud to fail.
'No,’ said Phasma. She let the girl stand there in the middle of the room, bare feet curling against the soft carpet. Shifting in her bone-coloured shift dress. ‘I'm told you’re new.’
'I started last week. The training.’ The chin came up again.
‘This is the best club in town,’ Phasma said, watching the girl's micro-expressions like a hawk. ‘You're lucky.’
'Yes,’ said the girl, but her eyes flashed with irritation. She was very green, to be so unguarded. Phasma reined in a smile. There was nothing she liked more than a girl with backbone. She prepared her next barb carefully.
‘I hear whoring at the gentlemen's clubs is much less appealing.’ Her tone was conversational, but Rey looked mutinous at the word ‘whoring’.
‘I'm sure it is.’ The diplomatic answer did not sit well in the girl's mouth. Phasma grinned.
‘You're mine for now, anyway.’ She stretched in her chair, and noticed that Rey did not miss the play of her muscles under her shirt. The girl was no soft, pampered toy herself. Phasma wanted to see more. ‘Let's take a look at you,’ she said. 'Turn.’
Rey turned in a slow, uncertain circle. Her pale, pleated skirt flared out at the hem, showing a few more inches of sun browned leg.
‘Take that off,’ Phasma ordered. The girl's shoulders stiffened, but her hands went to the thin tie at her waist and undid the knot. Her mouth tightened as she peeled the layers open until the dress was hanging from her shoulders and she was on display.
She was a lithe little thing, long-legged and long-waisted with tiny, pert tits and a smooth, flat belly. Her nipples were small and dark. Most intriguingly, she was bare everywhere, a choice at odds with her functional strength and the small white scars on her hands. Phasma let her eyes run down to the girl's mound.
‘Tell me,’ she said, deliberately drawing the words out with salacious pleasure, ‘did you shave yourself, or did Moa have another girl do it for you?’ Rey blushed dark.
'Tili did it,’ she said, every word an effort to speak. Phasma paused to imagine Rey submitting to a girl carefully spreading her open to shave away her bush.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
'I don't have an opinion,’ said Rey, in a bare-faced lie. Her hands were twisting in her dress.
'Drop the dress on the floor,’ Phasma instructed. Rey complied. She had freckles on her shoulders. Youth made her skin fresh and glowing. Phasma cut her eyes to the discreet set of drawers at the side of the room. 'I want to see how well this Tili can do her job. Fetch some oil.’ Rey hovered and then knelt by the drawers. Phasma idly unbuttoned her shirt with one hand as she watched the girl look through the cabinet of supplies. Phasma knew what was in there. Restraints and collars and corsets. Devices to vibrate or shock or immobilise. A cornucopia of dildoes, from tiny, finger-sized metallic toys up to enormous, life-like pseudo-cocks.
Rey found the bottle of oil and stood. She proffered it and Phasma shook her head.
‘You do it.’ It was clear Rey needed more instruction. ‘Head to toe, girl. Let me see you displayed to advantage.’ That was how they did it in the cheap quarters - girls oiled up in the windows to advertise themselves. Phasma preferred a higher class establishment, herself, but she could appreciate the visual. Rey's face was red and awash with a sense of recognition. She understood what Phasma had in mind.
It took the girl longer than necessary to open the bottle and begin to cover herself in oil. Shoulders and arms; that was easy. Breasts and belly and hips, as briskly as she could. A more experienced girl would make a show of it. Rey hovered between shame and the occasional tiny, curious glance at her lone audience. She oiled her legs and buttocks and then stopped, waiting for direction.
‘You've missed a spot,’ said Phasma with relish. ‘Haven't you?’ Rey said nothing. ‘Come on. Where did you miss?’ Rey's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and her right hand hovered down towards the join of her thighs. The sullen expression on her face softened just a little when her hand met flesh. That pleased Phasma. She would be the first to admit to a touch of sadism, but she had no interest in being unilaterally serviced by a disinterested girl. Phasma rose from her chair and stretched gratefully, her well-massaged back feeling unusually long and supple. In two quick steps, she had crossed the floor.
Rey was light and it was easy to roll her down onto the lavish bed. She made a breathless noise when it happened and her hands came up to grab Phasma’s biceps. Her hands were rough from work, although she had been oiled and filed and trimmed and clipped into something approximating a respectable Corellian escort.
‘What did you do?’ Phasma asked idly, relishing the feel of the girl under her for a moment.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Rey said, her chin coming up again as best it could when she was flat on her back under Phasma’s significant weight. It had the ring of long practice, a reflexive denial of petty crime or thievery. Phasma chuckled.
‘Before this - what did you do for work?’ Convention held that one didn't question a companion, but Phasma's grip on convention always had been tenuous. Besides, the girl was doing a poor job of erasing the traces of her recent past.
'I was a mechanic,’ she said hesitantly. The lie was so unconvincing that she immediately followed up. ‘Well - I worked at a ship repair place. Salvage.’ That explained the rough hands. Phasma let her hand make a lazy detour up Rey's ribcage, around the gentle swell of her right breast.
‘Why'd you quit?’ Phasma's thumb reached the hollow of Rey's throat, which buzzed against her touch as the girl spoke.
‘Money was bad. I want to get into flight school, get my certs.’ Rey’s eyes fluttered closed, distracted, and Phasma pressed the advantage, readjusting her weight over the girl’s body and leaning down to kiss her. To Phasma’s surprised gratification, the girl kissed back with no little skill. She went all loose and soft under Phasma, but she kissed with a bite. A bundle of contradictions. A resourceful desert cat with a thick vein of insecurity.
If Phasma were a better woman, she might have had second thoughts, but then, Phasma had never bothered to argue ethics.
She eased Rey into the idea of fucking; she was sure that Rey hadn’t been with a woman before. Her virgin-like hesitance, coupled with self-assurance about her body, was indicative. Phasma would put money on the girl having traded favours with scavenger kids. New recruits from the Outer Rim showed up with that blend of sexual confusion -- physical understanding cut with emotional naivety. Maybe that was why she had left.
Rey’s hands finally moved from Phasma’s biceps, up to her shoulders and around the back of her neck. She kissed back with intensity, now, warmed up to the idea of Phasma’s body pressed against hers. The hot edge of humiliation melting down into the kind of languid heat that companions could usually imitate to perfection. Rey was not acting. Her face was flushed and her rosebud mouth wet. Her dark brown eyes were dilated, staring up at Phasma with an intoxicating sort of nervous interest; she wanted, but she did not know what she wanted.
‘Have you fucked a woman before?’ Phasma asked suddenly, surprising herself. Rey blushed like a sunrise.
‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘There was a girl who-- we used to-- just with fingers.’ She squeaked out the last word as Phasma pressed an open-mouthed kiss under her earlobe, hot breath on her neck.
‘Boys,’ said Rey, derision in her voice. ‘Boss used to let xenos cop a feel, sweeten a transaction.’ She shrugged, shoulders to mattress. ‘Didn’t have to do anything much, though.’
There was a certain kind of protective instinct that came upon Phasma with some of her younger stormtroopers; a strange desire to see them thrive. Phasma felt that now. It crept up on her, annoying her. She tried to shake it off. She’s a whore, you don’t have to care about her. But she had already asked Rey more than she cared to know about any other companion. More than she cared to know about most other people. Her usual impulse was to take her pleasure and leave, ends conveniently tied up.
Unchecked emotions were for children and Sith Lords. She grimaced into the soft, freckled skin of Rey’s shoulder and then rolled off her. A tiny sound escaped Rey, an uncontrolled whine of disappointment. Phasma grinned down at her, stripping off her shirt and belt.
‘Enough talking,’ she said, getting undressed with brisk efficiency. She watched with satisfaction as Rey’s eyes widened at the sight of her. Phasma knew what she looked like: skin very pale and smooth, remarkable in height, heavily muscled and scarred. Rey, so obviously from a desert planet, so obviously used to working outside, was visibly struck by the white expanse of Phasma’s skin, untouched by the sun from years in space. A spacer’s tan, people sometimes said ironically. On backwater planets, the mark of someone who had the power to leave.
As if transfixed, Rey rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled to the edge of the bed, rucking up the luxurious layers of covers as she did so. It took no urging at all before she was reaching for Phasma’s hips and pressing her serious, round face between Phasma’s thighs. For a moment, Phasma had to suppress a stab of suspicion about the girl’s experience; was Moa playing games? But the way that Rey looked up at her with uncertain eyes and licked her lower lip could hardly be faked.
‘Shall I…?’ Rey asked hesitantly, and Phasma nodded and brought her big hand down onto Rey’s dark head. The first careful touch of Rey’s tongue on her clit made Phasma sigh. The girl curled up into her experimentally, but her grip on Phasma’s sides was not at all tremulous. It was easy to shift one foot, angle her thigh outwards and guide Rey to where Phasma wanted her; she was delightfully responsive and inquisitive. Her knees were wide apart on the bed for balance and from above, Phasma could watch the lean curve of her waist flaring into her ass.
The soft, rhythmic press of Rey’s tongue was deceptively good; riled up from taunting the girl, Phasma found her orgasm building quickly, cresting like a wave and just as wet. She groaned, her fingers tightening in Rey’s abundance of fine, soft hair, and was rewarded by the feeling of Rey gasping against her. Fingers curling into Phasma’s hips, eager now, with an enthusiasm that felt real. That keenness, the real want in Rey’s grip, brought Phasma over the edge. She shuddered against Rey’s tongue, arching against her and grinding up. Her thighs were slick together, her breathing fast.
She brought Rey up with two fingers under her jaw. Hardly any pressure needed; now that she had had a taste, Rey obeyed without question. Phasma kissed her, deep and pressing, and tasted herself on Rey’s mouth. Her hand slid down over the lithe muscle of Rey’s belly, across the point of her hipbone. Rey’s breath caught, an audible click. It was no effort at all for Phasma to slip two of her fingers into Rey. The oil that Phasma had demanded she cover herself with smoothed the way, and Rey’s wetness, and the way she shifted her knees apart to accommodate the press of Phasma’s hand.
It wasn’t hard to imagine the kind of touches Rey was accustomed to. Clumsy groping or inexperienced attentions from her little girlfriend. Phasma was much more adept. Her hands were as smooth as a working woman’s could be expected, her touch light. She stroked her thumb over Rey’s clit, watching her face all the while. The unguarded flickers of desire that passed across it; the way she bit her lip, gasped in tiny breaths. Rey’s hands came up to Phasma’s breasts almost of their own volition. They hovered, unsure, and then Rey brushed across Phasma’s tight nipples with her fingertips. Phasma growled at her, half-joking, and Rey shuddered desperately and came with a whimper.
After the first time, Rey seemed to forget her earlier hesitance. Wet and relaxed from Phasma’s fingers, she almost melted back down into the bed. Her chestnut hair had long since come undone from its loose bun and it tangled out across the green and gold bedclothes. Phasma thought about pulling it. There was a part of her that liked that idea: guiding Rey across the floor on her knees or bending her over the edge of the bed with her head pulled back. There was a unique pleasure, however, in taking the girl apart. Not quite new to Phasma, but rarely able to be indulged.
Phasma slid a hand under Rey’s hip and turned her facedown. With greedy hands, she spread Rey apart and watched her open up like a red, wet fruit, her inner labia parting like a mouth. Running a thumb over Rey’s tight pink asshole made her jump and gasp; slipping her thumb down lower and into her soft cunt made her moan. Phasma caressed inside her for a moment, feeling the twitch and flex of little aftershocks of pleasure.
Time slipped away from Phasma. She could finally stop thinking about the girl’s provenance, about all the strange, awkward ways in which she was so obviously unpracticed. They fitted together better, now, Rey less inhibited and wary, Phasma able to switch off. Later - for weeks afterwards, in fact - Phasma would think back to the blissful couple of hours in this richly-appointed room. The slick slide of skin on skin; Rey twisting like a felinx under her. The taste of her. The way she was so easily guided. How she blushed with sudden, hot desire when Phasma gave her verbal instruction, yeah, good girl, fuck yourself on my fingers.
A couple of rounds and Phasma got lazy. She stalked over to the storage unit in the room. More talking with a candidness that Rey flushed at, and then Phasma leaned back against the wall and played a vibrator against herself, watching Rey. Making her perform again, in that way that had always amused Phasma to do. Phasma gloried in the delicious sight of Rey’s unfocused stare as she eased herself down over a smooth, silver dildo, cunt stretching for it, lube trickling down. Working it all the way inside, and then realising with visible surprise that she liked it - riding it, bouncing herself full. Rey’s muscular thighs were shaking with fatigue when Phasma let her stop. Following orders, she spread herself wide, pink and open and inviting. Phasma reached for her, curled her fingers behind Rey’s pubic bone and rubbed her into a whimpering, shattered orgasm. It spurted from her with obscene wetness that trickled down Phasma inner arm, begging to be licked up. Phasma grinned at that, knowing that the girl would try to do it again on her own.
Exhausted, Rey rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. The oil that Phasma had smirkingly told her to rub on herself was mostly gone, now, gone onto the sheets and onto Phasma’s skin. Rey was glowing with sweat and endorphins, damp and rumpled. Well fucked. She looked like she wanted to say something, as though this had been for anything but money. Phasma sat up and cracked her lower back, and thought about the usual lines. This was fun. We should do it again sometime. You were great. Awkward. She was very green, the kid, very raw. Phasma saved her from the unique strangeness of trying to make conversation with a client by handing her the rumpled, sand-coloured dress from the floor.
Phasma slipped into the bathroom, pissed, washed herself quickly and pragmatically at the sink. When she came back to the bedroom, Rey was dressed and was sitting on the edge of the wrecked bed, combing her fingers through her hair. Phasma was tempted to leave with a quip, she was checked by the cagey, uncertain look that had come back to the girl’s face. She turned at the door, weighing her words carefully.
‘Good work, kid,’ she said, finally, and was rewarded by the ghost of a sweaty, satisfied smile.
‘Thanks,’ said Rey, and there was a little head toss, a bold little gesture that made Phasma hide an approving smile.
Moa Ventra was waiting near the lounge when Phasma came down the stairs, faintly flushed herself and feeling warm and satiated. Ventra swept forward, electric blue tulle rustling and her tentacles curling with intrigue.
‘Captain,’ she said, handing back Phasma card and beckoning a girl to bring her greatcoat. ‘What a shame you’re leaving us so soon. I trust your visit was satisfactory in every way?’ She stressed the last in an usual lapse of control. The girl. Phasma smiled.
‘Exquisite, Moa, as always.’ She shrugged on her jacket and then paused. ‘Do you still make those runs out towards the Vorena system?’ A few years ago, Moa had tried to expand her little empire by providing escort services for women on less salubrious planets.
‘As a matter of fact, I do. Between you and me, it’s a useful sideline. It keeps my name known for future business opportunities.’ Moa’s beautiful face flickered into irritation for a moment. ‘Of course, the security costs almost outweigh the revenue.’
‘I can help you there,’ Phasma told her. ‘That new girl, Rey. Put her in a cockpit and give her a couple of blasters.’ The look Moa gave her was very nearly surprise; very nearly, but Moa Ventra was too controlled to gape.
‘My dear Phasma, what a truly arcane sense of humour you have.’
‘I’m serious.’ Phasma laughed, despite herself. ‘She’s a tough little desert thing. Tells me she can fly; wants to be a pilot. I like her, she’s a delight, but her particular charms aren’t going to last long. She’ll quit. You’ll get more value out of her as a pilot and a security guard, plus you won’t have to fire her for messing with the girls.’
‘Oh, I use eunuchs now,’ said Moa casually. ‘Much more convenient, and so cheap, you know - they’ve rather fallen out of vogue in society.’ They strolled towards the door and a boy scurried to open it, bathing Phasma in mellow evening sun. ‘I shall consider this opportunity very carefully.’ With that, she gave a deep, graceful farewell bow, and disappeared back into her establishment.
Phasma set her course for her hotel, the corners of her mouth bowing upwards. She felt as though she had been offered a rare and precious thing. The girl had been at a unique turning point in her life, showing a delightful uncertainty paired with the type of grit Phasma liked to see in new recruits. She would do well as a pilot, and Moa would quickly see the benefit of having her flying rather than fucking.
Hux would sometimes cuttingly tell her that she was all soldier and no politician - all action and no foresight. But, just coincidentally, the First Order maintained a small recruitment and supply facility in the Vorena system. And, once again, Phasma’s smile turned into a satisfied grin.