Slavery's Release 2

It went pretty much as Oola had planned it—something that made her anxious. They managed to intercept a Jawa sandcrawler on one of its trade routes and bargain away the highly visible skiff for a sackful of credits and a Dewback to take them the rest of the way. 

The Jawas would take good care of the skiff. Any tracking devices or flight recorders would disappear into their rolling chop shop, never to be seen again.

Helpfully, Peter proved a good hand with the Dewback, taking to its handling almost instinctively. Oola doubted it would’ve respected her enough to allow itself to be ridden. 

Still, with her nerves acting up over how well the plan was going so far, she wanted to take additional measures. She urged Peter to detour them into the Jundland Wastes. Most stayed out of there for fear of the Tusken Raiders, but Oola knew that based on the alignment of Tatooine’s twin suns, this was their time of Qr-orine. They’d be pacifistic until the next moon change. But fear of them would still serve to throw off pursuit.

“You sure know a lot about this stuff,” Peter said, wanting conversation to distract him from how saddle-sore he was getting. He wondered if Oola had that problem. She was an alien, so who knew what she had down there.

No. Somehow looking at her, he just knew she was simply, indelibly woman.

“I used to listen to the other slaves talk about escaping,” Oola said. “All the little plans and details that could go into it. It somehow seemed so much more interesting to hear about that than what they, we’d do if we were free. But I never thought I’d be the one to go.”

“Why not?”  

“I didn’t think I’d make it. And it felt like my lot in life—being caged. Having a master. I couldn’t even expect a good master.”

“Hey,” Peter said to her. His arms were around her, holding the reins in front of her, and now he used them to give her a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not your lot in life.”

“I know that now,” Oola said, reaching up to clutch his forearm at her midsection.

Her hand stayed on his arm for a long moment, until the Dewback started to slow. Then Peter jerked his arm away to give the reins a flick and the Dewback lumbered back up to its original speed.

“So why’d you run?” Peter asked, awkwardly trying to restart the conversation—or angle it away from where it could’ve gone.

“I don’t know. I guess for a while—a long while—I started to think that I would just be like all the others. I wasn’t special. I would die when I annoyed someone or displeased someone or when it amused someone…”

Peter petted her arm soothingly, running his hand from the back of her shoulder down to her elbow, tamping down the flare of anger that Oola felt. That she always felt, but now was free to express. 

As bitter, as nauseating as the rebellious feeling was in her long-servile body, she clung to it. She liked how it brought Peter’s sympathy to her. Maybe he had anger like it somewhere deep inside, where he didn’t have to show it.

“I wanted to be special,” Oola said at last. Then, slipping out of her: “Stroke my lekku.”

“Your, uh, what?” Peter asked, caught between wanting to be confused and admitting what it was: a come-on.

“The head-tentacles. If you stroke them like you do my arm, it’s… soothing.”

“Oh.” Gingerly, Peter touched his hand to the top of her head. Dragged his fingertips down along the length of one lekku. It was quite smooth—something of the mammary in its warmth, its heft, the tenderness he could feel in its responsiveness. 

Peter felt stirrings of warmth in his groin, where Oola’s supple ass was parked in front of him on the saddle. He took his hand away before it trailed down to the tip of Oola’s lekku, which twitched as if in furious denial.

Peter put both hands on the reins. “I think the Dewback might be getting testy. Wouldn’t want him to try anything.”

“Alright,” Oola said, though she sounded… disappointed.

“We should probably give him a name. What’s a good name for a Dewback?”

“I don’t know,” Oola smiled, amused by him even asking her.

“Hey, it’s your planet. What’s he look like to you? A Fred? Jim? Bill?”

“Bill.” Oola nodded. “I like Bill.”

“Bill the Dewback,” Peter said, giving the reins a little chop to spur the mount out of dawdling. “Just don’t get too attached to him. I’m not sure how roomy spaceships are, but probably not roomy enough for us to pay to take him with us.”

“We can sell him to one of the moisture farmers,” Oola reasoned. “They’ll give us some more money—throw in a ride to the nearest spaceport. He’ll have a good life.”

“You sound like you’ve put some thought into it.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I suppose I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

Peter nodded. “Well, you won’t have to think about it much longer. As soon as we get to Planet Beach, you’ll just have to think about what SPF you want to use.”

“What’s an SPF?”

Peter grinned. “How much time do you have?”

***

Peter kept up a steady stream of information on the phenomenon of sunscreen, keeping Oola’s mind off where she had been and some distance from where she was going. Besides, she did have a vested interest in Peter’s skin.

The first of Tatooine’s two suns set, letting in a coolness that at first was refreshing, then became something else. Now Peter’s arms around her body were to pump warmth into her, as she burned into him as well. Oola thought about telling him to stroke her lekku again—that would warm her up plenty—but she was embarrassed enough to have asked him in the first place.

“How cold goes it get at night, around here?” Peter asked her, teeth chattering as he worriedly watched the second sun plunging into the horizon.

“I don’t know. I always spent nights inside the palace.”

“Great.”

Peter looked around with what remained of the sunlight, scouring the rock formations for signs of shelter. He spotted what looked like caves running through one plateau, though he would’ve liked to have binoculars to confirm it. He angled the Dewback toward it. 

***

The cave proved at least deep enough to protect them from windchill, especially with the Dewback lying against the mouth of the cave, taking in the warmth that came off their bodies and escaped into the night. Or maybe waiting for them to die so it could have a late supper.

Peter found that in addition to food and water, the Jawas had packed their saddlebags with firewood. A generous move for such flinty negotiations. Maybe they just wanted to keep alive anyone who was so easy to fleece. Even with Oola speaking for him to bargain away the skiff like a bigshot, he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d gotten a raw deal.

At any rate, he stacked up a few cords of firewood. Unlike Earth wood, it lit easily when he put his lighter to it, going up like the proverbial oil-soaked rags. Peter held out his hands to warm them, not having realized how cold he was until the fire started chasing the chill out of him.

“Now we’ve just gotta hope the nights on this planet aren’t too long.”