Title:  Mrs. Piett and an Interrogation Droid   (I want everybody to know *up front* what this is about)
Author:  Empress Piett, donnernblitzen@gmx.net
Rating: "NC-17" is the word you're looking for
Setting:  sometime in that Golden Age of Innocence between Ozzel's last big mistake and when we first found out about Ewoks.
Archive:  whatever, just LMK.
Feedback:  like Sex:  yes, please
Summary:  Piett's wife got out of line.  What this is going to do to straighten her up, I can't imagine.
Disclaimer:  Well, I didn't get much sleep, and I had a funny dream...  oh, you mean *that* disclaimer!  Okay, George Lucas doesn't need to know about this, and I'm not making any money off it, either.



ON WITH THE STORY ALREADY:


I had left my panties off for his convenience.  After all the ruckus I'd
forgotten about it; then when I was walking around his suite by myself
my lack of underwear caught my notice again.  I had just decided to get
some from my suitcase and put them on, when I heard the door opening.  I
arranged myself by the window, in a pleasing pose as if nothing was
wrong.

Why bother.  When he came in he had anger written in every line of his
body.  All hidden, tamped down and banked, of course.  He didn't say
anything to me.  He gave me a considering look, without any pleasantness
to it, then went over to the computer and started punching keys.

By this point, by rights, he should have been undressing.  Undressing
himself or starting with me first, I wouldn't have really cared which.
I would have been naked while I was waiting except that it didn't take a
genius to figure out It Wasn't Over Yet.  And it's hard to carry on a
convincing married fight when you're the only party without any clothes
on.

My husband, Andries Piett, pulled up a chair to take the weight off his
feet, and continued whatever project was so fascinating on the
computer.  He had quit typing, and was now reading whatever it was he
had accessed.

Well, I hadn't come up here to be ignored.  'It' would have to be gotten
over sometime, wouldn't it?  I mean, he couldn't stay angry with me
forever, could he?

That was the theory, anyway.  That was what I'd always heard.

I walked over to him.  I found myself walking very gingerly,
non-threateningly.  In truth I hadn't known him that long.  I'd found
out he could tiff just as well as any other man, when he was merely
irritated;  I hadn't ever seen him really angry before.

I wished he would face me and yell.  It would have to be better than
this, this polite, distant...

With fury coming off him in waves.

When I came almost close enough to see what he was reading, he tapped a
button and it disappeared.  "What do you want?" he asked.

Stung, I stepped back.  What I wanted was perfectly clear, wasn't it?
Him.  I wanted him.  It was why I'd come up here.  It was why I bought
this designer dress even I could barely afford, and not worn any panties
under it.  It was why I had even cared what that damned Ambassador's
wife said at the damn party to begin with.

I said, "I want to go home.  Call the shuttle and let them take me
back."

A few almost-emotions registered across his face-- irritation, then
hurt, then fury again-- and then back to the professional nothingness I
was starting to really hate.  "That's right," he said, with mock-
approval.  "Start a diplomatic incident then leave me alone to clean it
up."

"You said there was nothing more I could do."

He almost-smiled.  It wasn't a pretty sight.  "You've done everything
you can do already."

That was twisting the knife.  It was hurting, too.

So I had said a few things!  So I had blabbed a few things.  I couldn't
reel them back into my mouth again.  Everybody was going to go on
tormenting me for hours or days or years or until everybody was
satisfied and-- what could I do?

Apologize?

I almost-shouted, "Then let me lay down on the floor so you can walk on
me!"

"What good will that do?" he wanted to know.  He tapped his fingers
noiselessly against the side of the console, waiting for me to leave so
he could get back to his reading.  "What I need to do is have your mouth
wired shut so it can't ever happen again."

"Well, then other things couldn't happen again, either," I said, trying
to be charming.

It didn't work.  There was no response whatsoever, and I couldn't decide
whether I was furious or mortified.

I flounced to a chair and sat down in a froth of fancy dress.  Then
realized I'd just quit yet another battlefield, the clear loser yet
again.

I was not going to cry.  There was no way I was going to cry.  Just
because I'd permanently, irrevocably embarrassed and shamed myself and
my husband and the damned Imperial Space Navy which had somehow decided
I was a representative of it-- that was no reason to cry.

Crying was as deadly stupid a thing to do as apologizing.  Hey, I'd had
a high-stress job too!  I knew what trouble was like.  Shit happens,
even to the best of us.  It's nasty while it goes on, but you weather
it, and it blows over, and you pick up the pieces and adjust your budget
to reflect whatever level of personal income you find yourself at.  In
the Navy when trouble happened and you were at fault, you just swallowed
hard and took up your new duties as a private.  Or if you were an
Admiral, on Vader's personal staff...

I couldn't help a smile at that.

We had already been through that part, and both of us seemed to be
alive.  I stood in front of Lord Vader and a roomful of Moffs, feeling
about one meter tall, and recited every word that bitch of an
Ambassador's wife had said to me and everything I said back to her.  I
repeated each detail undiluted and untampered with, while my heart shook
in my shoes and my dear husband leaned against a bulkhead with his arms
crossed, looking disgusted.

He had already heard the story a few times by then, and I noticed he was
mouthing some of my lines along with me.  When I got to the good part he
closed his eyes and winced.

That was already six hours ago.  By now I was getting tired, and
starting to see the humorous side of all this.  I rested my chin on my
hand and laughed under my breath.

"Not funny," my dear husband said, not looking up from his screen.

"No, it isn't," I agreed, in just as nasty a tone of voice.  And that
settled that-- I went to the dressing room to get some underwear out of
my suitcase.

At least it got his attention.  He followed me.  I became aware of his
presence just before I singled out the wanted article of clothing, and,
lest the selection betray something of my thoughts, I slammed the lid
down on the case again.

"You are not leaving," he informed me, upon seeing the suitcase.

"Why?" I demanded.  I intended it to come out as a demand, but instead
it sounded dangerously close to a whimper.  "Andries, why should I stay
here?  What good will it do?"

He crossed his arms and glared at me.  "We'll only be here for three
more days.  You can't make it through three days with your husband?"

"Evidently not," I said, not daring to look at him.

When I next looked up he was gone.  Forgetting the underwear-- and still
halfway wishing we could forget all this, and get back to the original
purpose of my visit-- I ran out into the main room.  He wasn't there.
The computer screen had gone neutral grey.  The chair was back in its
place.

I was alone.

I would not cry.  No way would I cry.  There was prickling behind my
eyes which a cleansing flood of tears would relieve, as well as the
suffocating pressure around my heart.  But it would do no good, and I
didn't do it.

I went to the window and stared down at the city, wishing I was back in
the place I'd gotten used to thinking of as home.

If the damned party had taken place down on the planet, there would have
been a dozen different ways to sneak out now and go home-- or go
somewhere else.  Anywhere else.

Here I was stuck.  There was no way to leave except in the shuttle that
had brought me.  There wasn't any point even in leaving this room.  This
was 'home' at the moment, in that it was his quarters.  If I did go out,
I wouldn't know where to find him.

And I was persona non grata with several very important people.  Yes,
better to stay safely stuck away in here.

I sat down on the bed but instantly got up again.  Not the *bed*.  No,
anywhere but there.  Cold, unyielding expanse...  I curled up in a chair
instead.

Forgotten?

Well, my admiral didn't come back.  By the time an hour had gone by I
was fancying myself abandoned for life.  At least abandoned for this
visit.  In three days the fleet would leave.  Don't hold your breath for
it to come back, either.

Could he actually have stomped out of this room, not intending to come
back tonight? Would he go find a bunk somewhere, and stay out of my way
until I left with the rest of the guests?

I would have thought he wanted me.  It had been only three weeks since
the end of the three weeks of a proper Imperial honeymoon-- which hadn't
seemed nearly long enough.

Perhaps from my last remark he had thought I didn't want him.

It had been my golden opportunity.  The Naval gala of the century.  My
chance to see him again.  At least get royally laid.  Well, I'd screwed
that one up...

Now they were talking about not having receptions on board warships,
ever again.  And about having a screening process for the wives of high
officers.  And requiring social training for all young, hot-tempered new
brides.

Basically I would never be allowed out again without a muzzle, a leash
and a trained handler.

I jumped when the door buzzed.  That meant it wasn't him...  he wouldn't
have announced his arrival.  I checked my hair in the nearest mirror.
It was perfect.  Of course.  It couldn't be anything other than perfect;
I was perfect.

Usually.

"Come in," I said.

It was four stormtroopers, and a trooper officer with dead-looking
eyes.  They weren't even all the way through the door before I felt
threatened.  "Admiral Piett isn't here," I said, imperiously.  "Can I
help you?"

"Would you come with me, please?" the officer said.

"To where?"

"Come with me, please," he said, less patiently, and stepped back for me
to go out before him.

"There's some mistake," I said calmly.  "I'm Allina Piett and I'm not to
be detained.  Call Admiral Piett and ask him."

"It's the Admiral's orders," he said.  That seemed like way more talking
and explaining than he was in the habit of doing.

I didn't like it, but I went.  There was always that possibility that
something really unpleasant had gotten in the works, and this might be
my husband's way of removing me from it.  At least that was the most
attractive, though not the most plausible, thing I could think of to
reassure myself with.

I was only vaguely familiar with the interior of the ship.  Given its
vastness I doubted there were many humans who knew their way around the
whole thing.  And I was transported in a closed repulsor car.  One thing
I was aware of:  we went down.  Up is good.  Up is the direction of
status, power and respect.  Down is the opposite.

We went down, and down, and down.

None of my companions had anything to say to me.  With difficulty I
swallowed my nervousness and stayed silent myself, twisting my rings but
keeping my feet still at least.

Down was also the direction of the hangar.  Maybe they were taking me to
the hangar.  Maybe my husband had decided to loosen up a bit, and was
sending me home in the shuttle.

In that case the escort would have brought my suitcase, and wouldn't
have brought a bunch of guns.

When I finally had to speak or die, I said, "What exactly were Admiral
Piett's orders?"

The stormtrooper captain looked me over and didn't have anything to say.

Later I would have a word with somebody about his rudeness.  He should
be required to explain his actions to me-- shouldn't he?

The car stopped and without any words I was shoved out.  The door
slammed behind me and I was left alone in a new place.

I had lived in Imperial City a long time; I had a nice 3-D map in my
head and usually knew at least approximately where I was.  Here I was
painfully disoriented.  I felt lost in the expanse of ship.  The idea of
it floating above Imperial Center was comforting, but beyond that...

But it wasn't hard to figure out what this place was.  The two officers
here had those same dead eyes.  Manacles hung from a convenient peg, and
down a corridor I saw rows of hatches without much space between:
cells, it would seem.

As I turned to look wistfully after the departing hovercar a humming
caught my attention;  there, in a tucked-away corner, hovered a round,
black interrogation droid.

Thanks to one of my former co-workers' weird political connections, I
had seen a poor-quality homemade documentary on this type of thing.

I hadn't believed it.  Nobody would actually design and build a machine
whose purpose was only...

I had dismissed the rest of the documentary as well, thinking it must be
the product of an over-active imagination, if not simply a hoax designed
by some horror-show director.

The reality sat there in midair looking right back at me, its various
tools and claws stowed away, only the bantha-sized injection needle in a
fixed position.  The documentary hadn't even mentioned the humming,
which was fearsome enough in itself.  They must have pitched that sound
on purpose to get into the brain and under the skin.  I found my nerves
instantly aflame with artificially-generated fear that was quite as
convincing as the real thing.

But, I reminded myself, whatever it was doing, it wasn't doing it for my
benefit.  They must leave it on like that all the time, despite its
nerve-wracking humming.

And it wouldn't go wild and attack.  If it did it wouldn't chose me for
a target:  I am fine and I. Am. Completely. Calm.

I cleared my throat, brushed my oceans of white skirt nicely around my
bottom and walked (calmly) over to the two officers.  "Hello," I said
pleasantly.  "I'm not absolutely sure why I was brought here--"

"Admiral's orders, ma'am."

"Oh.  You know who I am?"

"Yes, ma'am."  He nudged his companion's shoulder, and the two of them
prepared to jump ship and abandon me to the floating torture droid.

"Where are you going?"  I demanded, not very calmly.  "What is the
meaning of this?  I demand an explanation!"

The one man looked at the other, expressing scorn at my manner of
speaking to him, but it was to the other that he looked, not at me.  The
door slid shut behind him and I was alone.

With that.

I went at once to the comlink and shouted, "Supervisor!"

There was no response, but neither was there the deadness of a
malfunction.

I reached under the console and pressed the hidden security button.  To
my satisfaction, deafening alarms began to blare all around me.  I put
my fingers in my ears and waited for some attention.

The alarms turned off again almost immediately, but nobody came.

Keeping a wary eye on the humming black sphere, which of course hadn't
budged from its position, I sat down to await developments.

The next one to come through the door was my husband.  I should have
jumped up, glad to see him as a rescuer, but in the meantime I'd had
time to think about it, and I wasn't so sure.  Casting an eye over his
person I began to have my doubts:  did I even recognize him?  Did I know
him from a stranger?

If a stranger at a cocktail party had asked me whether Executor even
carried torture droids I would have said, "Of course not!"

Which would have been very stupid and uninformed.  But then, most of our
perception of life is based on assumptions.

"Andries?"  I said, feeling very uncertain.  "What's going on?  Why was
I brought here?"

"Don't you ever back down?"  he asked.  "Don't you ever get tired?"  He
sounded tired.  Well, of course.  He would have been on his feet for
quite some time now.

"Of course I get tired.  I'm tired right now.  But I was brought away
from your-- our-- the bed, and down here instead.  Now, what?!"

He rubbed the back of his hand over his brow.  An expression of
weariness; I watched with pity and guilt for causing it.  But something
about the way he took his hand away.  Entirely too fast.

I sat back down.  He couldn't still be angry with me.  He shouldn't be
angry, it wasn't like him, it wasn't natural after what we had become.

He should let go, and just forgive me, before he snapped and did
something completely--

He walked over to the torture droid and put both his hands on it.  I
wanted to scream a warning-- don't you know what that thing is?  It'll
get you!

It turned on its own power to follow the leading of his fingers.

--crazy.

There was another one behind the first.  I hadn't even noticed the
second one.

The chosen individual left its position and hummed peacefully across the
room in my general direction.  The other one remained still.

"I've been given some options," Piett said.  "The consensus seems to be
that I should wait until this all dies down, and quietly divorce you."

A cry of pain came to my throat but I let it go no further.  Perhaps
when I'd heard the other options, that would seem like the best one.

"My personal choice would be to simply give you a more quiet place to
live."

"A prison, you mean!"  I said.

"No," he said at once, taking that literally.  "Not a prison.  Only
somewhere, where--"  He realized what I had meant, and couldn't deny it.

I had now walked all the way around the console to keep it between the
floating droid and me.   The droid now hovered directly above it, so
there was no reason for me to walk anywhere else.

Only a few weeks ago I would have confidently thrown myself into Piett's
arms.  A few weeks before that I didn't know who he was.  I seemed to be
back to that state, only without the innocence of it.  I wasn't merely
on my own now.  I was betrayed.

There was option three, the one he seemed to have settled on.  That
million-credit machine facing me right now could flip just one switch in
my mind, and I would be a nice girl from here on out.  The change would
be documentable and convincing.  Everything could go on as it had; Piett
would still have his wife.  She would go on living in her previous
place.  Yet the recent besmirching of the Empire's honor would be
settled and closed, with the offender having been punished to even the
Moffs' satisfaction.

Piett would still have me but I would not have him.

I wondered if the new woman would enjoy him as I had.  Or love him as I
did.  I looked around for some way to end her life before it even began,
and, nothing presenting itself, I did the next best thing, for
appeasement of my rage:  I jumped him.

It took him by surprise and we went down together.  I know I hurt him.
I got in a couple of good thumps before I ended up face down on the
floor with my hands pinned behind me.

I had made him breathe heavily, and that pleased me.

"At last a reaction!" he said, with satisfied tones.  "I didn't think
you had it in you."

"Why wouldn't I?"  I gasped.  He was putting too much pressure on my rib
cage; I couldn't breathe very well.  I would be hanged before I would
complain.  "I can scrap as well as anyone!"

"Your stony eyes are driving me insane," he informed me, leaning over
me.  He climbed off me and picked me up by my arms.  I put my teeth
together to avoid crying out.  "There is a way in there.  I couldn't
find it before.  Maybe this will help."

The black interrogator.  I had forgotten it for a moment, now I heard it
humming very close to me.  "No,"  I said.

"Won't it help?  I'll bet it will.  We'll see."  Still holding my arms
behind me, he half-marched, half-dragged me past the console and into
one of the cells.  It contained a table and a bench and smelled of
disinfectant.

I found an opening, a moment when his grip was off-guard, and almost
twisted myself free.  He caught me, folded me up again and held me down
over the table.  I wasted some energy in straightforward,
strength-against-strength bucking.  It did me no good.

The black droid had followed us in.  Its hum grated on my nerves and
pushed my fear past the breaking point.  And the needle... I didn't even
want to look at that.  This wasn't the doctor's office; these needles
were built for efficiency, not comfort.

I resolved to be strong.  If it had to happen, I wouldn't give him the
satisfaction of hearing me scream.  But the droid's sensors were
designed to be sure there was no premature brain damage, and no
accidental death.  Nobody resisted.  Not even those who had prepared for
it, trained for it all their lives.  There was no way in the universe
that I would be able to resist.

This was not supposed to be happening to me.  Not when he, the one I
loved, was touching me, really touching me for the first time since I
set foot on his damned ship.

Only to hold me still for that thing-- and I screamed then.  "No!
Please, Andries!"

I wasted more energy in that unequal struggle, then when the black
planet of the droid's surface filled my vision I went quiet and turned
my face into Piett's arm.

He huffed a laugh.  "It's not going to kill you.  It won't even hurt
you-- much."  He moved my hand, holding it where the droid could get to
it.  I felt something damp contact my wrist, then the sharp pinch of the
needle.  I yelped, then grit my teeth.  Piett, bending over me, said
soothing things into my ear... "Sssh, hold still, don't fight, it'll be
over in a moment."

He had a wonderful voice when he chose to.  Soft, gravelly, yet
thrilling.  Or perhaps I only found it so.

I pulled against him.  He prevented my moving, which was probably good,
since moving the needle would not have been comfortable.  I could hear
that irritating buzz so close to my head.  I looked at my hand and was
sickened by the sight of the black droid fastened to me by the thin
metal tube.  When I wasn't looking, it felt like I was being pinched
hard, but looking at the reality of needle disappearing into my flesh
was worse.

My traitorous husband breathed warm into my hair and, to my displeasure,
I felt deeply aroused.  Why must it be so, now of all times?

The droid moved-- clumsily, I thought; it bumped as it withdrew itself
and the needle, sending a thread of fire up my arm.  There was great
relief from that one ill-used patch of me, but not much relief of mind.
I didn't know what it was that it had injected me with, or what would
happen now.

Something was happening and it frightened me.  Something taking effect
inside my system.  Something waking up.  Something shutting down.

I couldn't think.  I started to panic as my thoughts went away.  Then
more of them went away, and I ceased to worry about it.

I could feel...

Piett still held me bent over the table, not allowing me to move.  I
became acutely aware of the solidness of his body behind me and above my
back.  The edge of the table cut into my hips with a pressure that was
increasingly becoming pain.  Piett's hold on my wrist was becoming
painful too.  I saw his black-gloved hand-- very clearly I could see the
stitching along the fingers and down the backs of the hands.  I could
smell the soft, well-worn leather.  The scent was faint to my nostrils
but seemed to be increasing in clarity with every passing moment.

When I turned my head the other way, I could smell the animal fibers of
his tunic, and the sweet spice of his skin beneath it.  With a gasp of
shame, I realized I was intensely aroused.  I wanted him now, more than
ever.

Had I no pride at all?

I closed my eyes.  A small, impatient movement on my part made the
rough, artificial fibers of my clothes slither across my over-sensitive
skin, making me jump in reaction.  The jump made the clothes move with a
vengeance, and I held still in defense.

My husband was asking me if I was all right.  I couldn't understood his
words very well, but I felt his voice intensely.  I heard it as a living
thing moving against my eardrums, and through, inside my head, becoming
mingled with my own thoughts.

The table pressing against me, and the ungentle way Piett held my wrist,
were both becoming too painful to bear.  Each of those contacts were
unnaturally exaggerated, as if they were touching against an inflamed
wound.  I moved again, trying for release, but at the same time not
wanting to move.

"Does that hurt?"  I heard his voice say.  "Of course... I'm sorry..."
he released the grip, instead brushing his gloved fingers gently along
the bare arm that he had held.  I felt all my nerve endings quiver in
response, trying to follow a source of intense pleasure.

"What is that stuff?"  I managed to say.

Then I missed the whole first part of the explanation, because I felt
his hands touch the back of my dress.  Lowering the zipper.  Touching my
bare skin, with the gloves that were both warm and cool at once, and
very smooth against me... I could hardly breathe for the pleasure of it.

Something about a drug that increases the sensation of pain?

And lowers the resistance?

I almost remembered to be frightened, and with the sliver of conscious
mind that remained to me, I listened for the torture droid's telltale
humming.  I couldn't register it, but that didn't mean it wasn't still
there.  I didn't dare to open my eyes and look for it.

Piett took his gloves off.  His bare hands, strong and warm, sent
cascades of sensation along my burning skin.  With no thoughts, no
resistance, I melted into his hands with a groan I couldn't even
remember to suppress.

My dress slid down my legs, floating to the floor; some folds of it
stayed there to brush against my ankles.  I heard my husband laugh
softly.  Of course-- no underwear.

He said something, in tones of great amusement, something about Lord
Vader and the Moffs and me and the brazenness that he was supposed to
beat out of me, as if that were possible-- and I heard none of it, only
felt the rough cloth of his clothes, and his hands hard against my
bottom.

I was hot and drenched.  Drowning in sweet, slick desire.  He lifted me
from the table, just enough to get his hand around to the front of me,
and sank his fingers into that warmth.

I know I gave a pride-less yowl of anguished need.  I could think of
nothing else but the joy and bliss of this, and the hollow, hurting ache
I felt, wanting him, wanting him in me, wanting him on me, wanting him--
wanting to scream:  Just take me!

I tried to turn... but the effort from my own muscles hurt too much.  I
said something but I wasn't sure what it was.

He rubbed his hand into my crotch, slow and hard, feeling the wetness,
massaging it back into me.  Both his arms were around me as he leaned
over me, lifting me from the surface of the table but keeping me down at
the same time.  He leaned over and kissed the back of my neck, gently
chewing on me with his teeth, and just once licked my skin-- there was a
sensation of cooling as his saliva evaporated.  I tried to scream, but
as if in a nightmare, no sound came out.

He stepped away from me to undress.  I managed to stand up, holding the
table for support.  My legs were weak, my balance non-existent.  He
paused from levering off a boot to catch me before I fell.  Somewhere in
the back of my consciousness I registered what it would have felt like
to fall against the floor, in this condition.  Bone-jarring agony, is
all it would be--

I saw the torture droid, floating forgotten high up in a corner.

Pity the poor victims of--

Piett set me on the bench and continued stripping.  I watched him, doing
my best to turn down my other supercharged senses so that the light of
the room and the beauty of his form would be bearable.  It was, just
barely.  I saw his pale skin and the movements of his muscles as
something familiar, as well-known to me as my own body, and as
desirable.  I reached an aching arm to touch him... the velvety skin of
his engorged shaft and the hardness beneath it.  I had to drop my arm. I
couldn't bear it.  Couldn't see straight... the room seemed to tilt and
distort.

I was angry that I lost my sight.

He held me and I was immensely pleased.  I must have been laying on my
back but it couldn't be proven.  I seemed to be on top, or drifting
alongside, without gravity or anchor, or any reference point but Piett's
warm mouth on mine, comforting, inviting, tormenting me with the--

silence.  That moment before the moment before--

he thrust into me all in one easy, practiced stroke.  The thirst for him
was quenched, the drowning of all my doubts was completed.  I believe
I--

I--

It was not right.  It was so odd... it was the drug, it had to be.

I could feel him inside me, every last inch, as never before.  The
disruption, the invasion, inside my body was brought to my senses now,
not dully but acutely.  I forgot the splinters of pleasure at every
contact with my outer skin, in the shock of feeling sensation where
there usually was none.  I knew what was inside me, I could feel the
shape of it, and how all my insides conformed to it as it moved,
withdrew, ground forward again.

Too much for one tired mind to absorb.

"Andries," I whispered, surprising us both by speaking.

He kissed me slowly, tasting my sensations, licking my breath from my
lips.  He touched my hair and I forgot all else-- for the sheer pleasure
of his fingers tangling in that silk and the slight pain of a few pulled
strands.

He pushed my hips apart, continuing to thrust into me.  It seemed to be
more gentle than usual.  He was being very, very careful of me, and
still it was too much, almost killing me, I thought--

I tried to hide when it was time.  I tried to resist a feeling that
would be so much stronger than I was that it terrified me.

A futile attempt.  I was found, and dragged out, and then ever so
gently, with loving hands, I felt my whole body twisted and crushed
beneath the--

unbearable pleasure.

I gritted my teeth and tried to hold on to my sanity.  I was doing well,
I thought-- then that man, whom I love more than the air I breathe,
wrapped both arms around me and rolled a little sideways with me.  He
lay still for a time, kissing me so sweetly, and when I least expected
it--

I ceased to breathe.  There was no way I could breathe.  I couldn't
see.  Couldn't think.  My body betrayed me, handed me over to my
tormentor.  I gasped, choked, as every muscle in my body convulsed.

Sweet relief tore me apart.

I thought I would die.  I thought I would never have to move again.  I
would stay here forever-- wherever 'here' was.  It didn't matter.  I
would only stay there floating weightlessly, blissfully comfortable.

Drifting.

Falling.

"Allina."  His voice was sharp, commanding.  Too loud in my ear.  I
flinched away from it.   "Allina.  Open your eyes."

Bothering me.

Leave me alone--

His hands on my head, gently shaking me.  There was urgency in his
voice:  "Allina, wake up!"

He struck me.  Probably not very hard-- in my present state it wouldn't
have to be very hard, to feel like being smacked in the face by a ship's
hatch.  Pain blossomed in my skull, shooting tendrils of misery down my
neck.

I moaned, feeling freshly betrayed, and took a deep breath that sent a
cooling wave of oxygen through my body.  Had the air gone stale?  I
hadn't noticed.  I took another breath, and it was another delicious
sensation.  A few more breaths...

There had been an irritating beeping sound, as of a wake-up alarm going
off by my head. That sound had stopped when I began to breathe again,
but the humming was still there-- I opened my eyes to see the black
interrogation droid hovering just above me, staring at me with its
emotionless life sensors.

Piett pushed the droid away with his hand.  It floated away, probably
feeling offended; it had only been trying to help, that time.

He spoke to me, his lips close to me, his breath ruffling my hair.  I
heard a few of the things he said.  Nice things, all of them, and that
was good for a change.  He had been angry with me for many hours in a
row.  In fact he said that-- and some other things that didn't quite
come through, although it was with crystal clarity that I heard a spoken
vow to never be angry with me again.

What man could keep up that kind of promise?

It was a nice thing to say, anyway.  And it felt good for him to touch
me as I drifted off again.  He watched me--

Next time I woke up it was on sheets made from flower petals, their
residual pink glow countered with a severe line of dark grey piping.  It
was the most delicious feeling against my naked skin.  But my brains
were back in order, and I wondered when he had picked up an affectation
like that.  It was not like him to spend so much money on something so
expensive and so easily ruined.  But then, what did I know of him,
really?

Sunshine warmed my face.  I thought nothing of it at first, since my
bedroom was aligned that way at home, but then as reality returned I
realized it could be no accident that the ship was oriented in just such
a way, to make the sun's light fall over this bed.

A compliment.  Rather like leaving a bouquet of flowers on the
nightstand?

Well, thank you.

I moved experimentally, running self-checks and security procedures.
Everything seemed to be in order.  The sheets felt wonderful, but not
*too* wonderful;  just ordinary wonderful.  My hair, which had somehow--
no, I knew how, but I didn't want to think about it-- gotten loose, was
tangled around my breasts and arms, but while that irritated me, it
didn't drive me totally insane with unendurable frustration.

"So, it wears off," I said aloud, struggling up to disentangle the hair.

"Of course it wears off," Piett's voice said.  "I wouldn't have given it
to you if it didn't." He sounded lighthearted and cheerful.  He must not
be angry with me any more.

I went down again, into the sheets.  "Why is my head splitting?"  I
demanded.

"Could be from everything that went on yesterday," he said.
"Skirtopanol doesn't do that."

"Is that what it was," I mumbled.  "That stuff's illegal."

"Not illegal.  Only controlled, and for good reason."  I heard his steps
come nearer and I made sure my face was hidden.  He went on, "There are
up-sides to everything.  One of rank's privileges is that you can have
an IT droid come to your room along with the whore.  I can't say I ever
tried it before."

"You," I said, with emphasis on that word, "still haven't."

He chuckled in the most blood-freezing way, and it distracted me for a
moment.  I thought of previous occasions when I'd heard him make that
sound.  I had formerly dismissed it as a fluke and not like him at all--

Probably in just the same way as he had dismissed it when he heard my
parents call me The Spitfire.

Meanwhile I missed what he said:  oh, yes, something to the effect that
he wouldn't be trying it, either.  Not on himself.

Really?  You're immune, somehow?

And he continued, "I'm surprised nobody told you.  It's one of those
legends, traditional to shock new wives with.  I can see you just
haven't been hanging around in the right locker rooms."

"I had no interest in the Navy at all until just a couple of months
ago," I said quelchingly.

"I know," he said, in less friendly tones.  "It shows."

I had nothing to say for myself.  I heard or felt no movement, but I
thought he was leaving.  "Andries," I said into the pillow, quieter than
a whisper.

He touched my shoulder.  A warm, gentle touch.  His hand felt rough by
comparison with the petal sheets.

"Get some more sleep," he said.  "Later, after the, ah-- if I can get
you free for a while... we should go planetside.  What do you think?  Go
to the Gardens, have lunch at Imres?"

"Yes," I said simply, my attention all on the hand, and the voice.  The
Gardens were where we had met.  He had been wearing plain clothes.  I
had had no idea who he was.  He had looked me up and down with that
expression of professional nothingness, those resigned,
I've-seen-too-much eyes that I chose to take a different way:  as
possibly the greatest challenge to woman that there had ever been.

But then I had loved him.  Maybe I did right from the start, and that's
why I took it that way.

Damned fool of a woman to do that.

When he was gone I turned over on my back, pushed the sheets down and
lay there bathing in the warm sun.  I was still a bit tired.  More sleep
probably would take care of the headache.

One of those legends, traditional to shock new wives...

... so easy to have a torture droid sent to his room.

Common practice, was it?

Is that right?

My fingers, laying flat on the sheets, started an elaborate pattern of
tapping.

Revenge is sweet.  Paybacks are hell.

And oh, mercy, are you in for it, mister...






>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>





Epilogue, to explain a couple of things which weren't in the story, the
inclusion of which would have ruined everything anyway.


Narayana:  On the not-so-good-for-me side was the thing you mentioned
yourself.  It's hard to imagine Piett being quite so sinister. And I'm a
worrier, so now I'm worried for his career - he's bound to resent her,
surely?

Me:  This whole story is a throwaway.  I don't want it affecting
anything else.

Narayana:  Why has he been given the option of screwing her blind,
though? That doesn't sound like Vader.

Me:  This makes the least sense of any of it.  I was kind of just
babbling anything here, so I could get on to the good parts.  The thing
is... I think... I need to put some distance between the two concepts.
This has nothing to do with Vader.  Piett's just making
ominous/threatening/sinister remarks for conversation's sake, because
it's atmospheric, and Allina needs some semblance of justification to
freak out.   She jumps to entirely wrong conclusions.  They're actually
married despite all this, and here he's simply communicating what's
going on, all the latest news and such.  He's telling her about problems
that will have to be resolved at some future date.  *This* has nothing
to do with the resolution thereof.  *This* is because he's tired out of
his mind, and frustrated, and unnaturally angry with her, AND she's been
on the ship way too many hours already without getting screwed.  He's
never done rape before, can't very well do it now since she's too much
in heat to dislike it, but he would *like* sexual revenge served hot.
Here's the way.

Narayana:  The reason why I asked if that was the drug's official name
is because it is pretty naff. Firstly, -anol endings are for chemicals,
not drug brand names in general. And secondly, it sounds like 'skirt up
and all' which is exactly what's happening here but is not in general a
frightening name. But if it's official, you're stuck with it.

Me:  It sounded extremely weird to me.  I know the endings mean various
things, but I didn't know what.  I was beginning what might have been a
very educational quest to learn what I needed to know to design a good
drug name, but then skirtopanol imposed itself.  I kept forgetting it; I
remembered it by "skirt panel", that would be "gore", actually, as in,
"six-gore skirt".  Since I hate the name, perhaps I could just leave it
off?  But then there's the danger that some Star Wars freak out there
will think I'm too ignorant to know what skirtopanol is.  Or that you
never, never use it with lotiramine.  *gak*

Narayana:  I wasn't entirely sure what the legend was. That officers
have whores? Torture droids? That officers risk killing their wives
after manufacturing a diplomatic incident just to get laid? What do they
whisper in locker rooms, exactly? And do the wives hang around locker
rooms at all?

Me:  Locker rooms was a bad choice of words.  I had started to put
'schoolgirl legend' but that didn't work either.  It's a BDM thing, I
guess. Allina wasn't raised to think of Navy officers as her destiny,
but in some circles where that was more the thing, rumors like this
would have been more prevalent.

The legend was the *other uses* for skirtopanol. The secret is that it
isn't really a drug that reduces resistance to interrogation while
increasing sensation of pain.  It's actually a drug that reduces mental
resistance, while increasing physical sensation.  It wouldn't be so
great to have the drug itself get out, I mean, think 'date rape' here,
and it wouldn't be good to have the secret out either, that skirtopanol
in itself isn't so sinister, since right now everybody's afraid of it,
as the name conjures up sinister associations like IT droids and
disinfectant.  Besides, lotiramine is actually pretty common, and
reaction of the two drugs together causes memory loss or death.

Quote:  "Get some more sleep," he said. "Later, after the, ah-- if I can
get you free for a while... we should go planetside. What do you think?
Go to the Gardens, have lunch at Imres?"

Narayana:  After the what?

Me:  After something really sinister that I couldn't think of at the
time.

After Allina and the ambassador's wife are forced to apologize to each
other, with a whole bunch of menfolk of two species watching them.
They'd both rather claw each other to death than speak, but at some
point they glance at each other and realize together that they're both
victims of a male-run hierarchy and that there's a certain cameraderie
to that.  They sympathize with each others' plight while admitting that
they have no use for each other.  They kiss and make up with every
evidence of good grace.