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He doesn't tell Rheena, anymore.
She'll find out at some point anyway, he knows. Nothing escapes her sharp eyed surveillance and she'd definitely notice the increased traffic to the bathroom once word started getting round to the patrons. But she wouldn't stop him, or do anything more than instruct the security droid to keep a closer watch on the area in case any trouble breaks out.
Brander Lawson weaves through the gambling machines on the main floor and heads down the short side hall that leads to the restroom, careful to keep his hood up and his face hidden from the patrons and the lone camera hovering above the threshold, and shoulders the door open to slip inside.
The bathroom at Sul's place isn't anyone's idea of sparklingly clean, but Lawson knows she doesn't let it get absolutely filthy as a point of professional pride.
Guiltily, he shutters the thought that maybe she was doing that in part for him as well, knowing of his... tendencies, and offering support in the ways she could.
'If you have to do this, Lawson, at least do it in a place that's not a bantha sty.'
The bathroom is empty, thankfully, so he makes his way to the stall at the very end without being accosted or witnessed. There's a rusted hole in the door where the lock is supposed to be, but the mechanism he brought from home fixes that in no time. It spins quietly to life once he attaches it, forming a bolt that fits snugly in the gap and expending strong, thin tendrils of durasteel from either side of itself to secure him inside.
Brander drops to his knees, aware that he's trembling, and tries to get his breathing under control as he reaches inside his jacket for the small, knotted baggie that's been burning a hole in his pocket for the last full cycle.
A few more breaths to get his shaking fingers under control- it won't do to drop it, and waste a crucial aid for this little reprieve that he allows himself- and Brander starts to undo the knot in the bag. The cloyingly overwhelming aroma of spice fills the tight space instantly, and his pulse quickens embarrassingly fast.
He is not a spicehead. He only uses it for this, and never at home or near his son. He can go without it, and what he uses it for, for weeks at a time without it impacting his performance at the station or as a father. And he's never spent credits on it. Whatever he gets is whatever's confiscated from the criminals he takes in. So, not an addict, and not in danger of scary debts.
At least, that's what he's told himself as many times as he needs to believe.
He raises his hand to his mouth and licks his finger, then lowers it down into the bag to coat his moist skin in the iridescent red and gold powder. He brings it back to his face and bares his lips in a sneer, rubbing the substance in multiple passes along the line of his upper and lower gums. It tingles and almost burns, but doesn't, making his flesh sizzle pleasantly in the wake of his motions and filling his entire mouth and nose with the scent and taste of sweet, scorched sand.
The few specs that fall across his knuckles get inhaled with a few quick snorts, and then (in one of the last fully clear thoughts he has before it starts to take effect) he remembers to unholster his duty blaster and place it on the floor, on his left side away from the view under the stall door.
He'd never had to resort to using it while doing this, but one could never be too careful in an environment like Sul's even if Janix wasn't known for harboring the worst of the worst. If someone did ever try to force their way into the stall, he would rather be humiliated than dead…or worse. But preferably neither, hence the lock.
The spice starts to kick in on the tail end of that mixed thought, spreading sparkling tendrils made of languid warmth and restless energy in equal parts through his veins and along his nervous system. He leans his head against the cool slickness of the stall partition and tries to slow his breathing again, droplets of sweat beading everywhere his clothes touch his skin. The waiting is the worst part, honestly, trying to keep his mind empty and his nerves from failing.
A rush of noise- the restroom door opens. Someone comes in, grumbling to themselves as they stumble into one of the far stalls. They exit after a while and trundle over to the sinks, shortly before the pressurized gush of the sani indicates that they're about to leave.
Breathless, clenching down on the rising tide of heat inside him, Brander raps on the inside of the stall door with his knuckles. The person at the sani pauses, going still and quiet for a moment like they're not sure what they just heard.
He knows they're looking around, so he darts his finger through the hole where the original lock used to be and makes a slow, deliberate, unmistakable beckoning motion before pulling it back.
"… Huh. Oh yeah? It's like that?" They laugh- an ugly braying sound, like a trumpet. "Didn't know this place had such a nice bonus." They kick the door to the opposite stall open and clamber inside, clothing rustling.
"Even got your prices all writ out…wha'dda good little slore."
Those aren't his prices. Brander didn't write those little red squiggles on the other side of the stall. They're in a language he doesn't speak and he doesn't do this to get paid for it. He suspects the 'prices' are left over from whatever poor sod had made frequent use of this stall before him.
He doesn't bother explaining that while he bounces on his knees, impatient, for the man to get over his lewd amusement and get on with it.
"There. Git t'suckin."
The lights in the bathroom flash and fade in time to the music thundering outside, a discordant rhythm that mixes with the spice coursing through his system, turning everything a muddy, formless pink. He can't make out anything about the cock stuck through the hole in the wall at eye level to him except the general shape and length- human, average, cut- nothing extraordinary, but the sight of it sends a wicked tide through his spiced body all the same.
He feels like he's in a trance as he moves to grasp it with a supressed groan, squeezing once to thirstily watch a bead of precum slide from the tip as the spice flared in his throat, and he hears a low mutter of appreciation from the other side of the stall as he opens his mouth and finally swallows as much of it down as he can.
The musky taste and heft against his tongue, the pressure sliding against and over his teeth… It's disgusting, and delicious, and his whole world narrows down to it so fast it makes him dizzy. He curls his lips and sucks slowly, working his throat around the thick wedge of the head, gagging in appreciative glee when the man on the other side starts thrusting into the hole in earnest.
Muscle memory sets in wonderfully fast on the heels of that heavy, repetitive motion, as do echoes of the floaty empty-mindedness he craves so badly. It feels good in a way that transcends sensation, to just have this simple, lewd task to focus on and succeed at. No perps to write up, or dots to connect, or bank heists to figure out for an overstressed police captain... just the steady rutting of some nameless jackass taking fast, dirty pleasure from a faceless hole in a bathroom.
Like usual, it's over far too quickly for his liking. The man gasps brokenly a few times and pulls out abruptly before he can really get into it, lacing his lips with a few measly strings of bitter cum before stepping back and away with a snickered, sarcastic "thanks, dolly" tossed back at Lawson.
He leans back slowly in the aftermath. His muscles are trembling but his mind is much closer to being momentarily, blissfully clear. He can feel his own cock twitching and straining pitifully in the mess of precum he's made in his own trousers, and that feels good, too…that boiling swell of a denied climax that he couldn't, wouldn't let himself have yet.
On and on it goes like that, for a while. Men come in and do their business while he waits in his little stall for them to finish and clean up- silent, rolling- until he makes them known of his presence and wordlessly begs them for what he needs.
Eventually, word gets around like it normally does, and they start skipping the urinals entirely to make a beeline for his stall, kicking the credits under the gap in the same instant that he hears them undoing their zips and buckles. He sweeps them into the corner to ignore them, unknowingly wasted.
He takes tiny top-ups of spice in between the next sets of five or so, and the world devolves further into a tight crush of sensation and light and shameful indulgence. The cocks in his mouth blend together in his haze, one after the other, fucking his face and spilling their loads down his gullet and chest to a chorus of grunts and moans and curses.
And it's good. It's…well.
It's what he wanted, yes. But at the same time… It wasn't. In the space of his next break between one visitor and the next, Brander realizes that somehow he felt lacking, still unsatisfied with the level of noise and unease in his mind simmering under the spice and lust overlaying his thoughts.
He hasn't cum yet, despite the dull, insistent throb of arousal sitting thick in his lap. That was never really the point of this. He'd usually take care of himself quietly at home after- three knuckles deep with a pillow between his teeth to muffle his cries- but he didn't feel satiated enough to call it quits.
He felt used, yes. Sore, hoarse, sure. But not overly excited, or forcibly distracted from the reality waiting for him outside the stall, the cases he couldn't solve and the sadness in his son's eyes.
Force...
The word stuck and crawled decadently through his spice-logged synapses like thorny vines, leaving a shiver in its wake that he had no immediate reason for. Isn't that what Klyce had called it, that weird pushing power they'd seen the fugitive- Maul- using on the tapes, alongside that deadly laser sword thing?
Yeah…that was it. She'd murmured it in an undertone to herself, and nearly blushed when Brander asked her to repeat herself, shrugging away the suggestion even as she made it.
"'Its nothing, I'm probably wrong. Just something I used to hear about whenever I'd visit Coruscant, where the Jedi used to hang out. I think that's what they called…that,' she'd waved a dismissive hand, "'that magical mumbo-jumbo they used to do."
The Force. He'd seen and heard of it before, while briefly serving with that young Jedi cadet years ago on a joint case, but he hadn't truly known the full extent or feel of that ethereal ability until he'd experienced it himself, during the attack on the station and Vario's breakout.
Maul. Standing there at the end of the hall, a crimson wall of black and red malice outlined in bloody red light from the crackling weapon in his grip. Surrounded by the corpses of his droids and fellow officers alike.
Brander remembers gathering his courage against the instinctual animal urge to run for his life, drawing his blaster and aiming before he could allow himself to hesitate…and then feeling the warp and squeeze of reality itself around him, invisible hands tearing the weapon from him before he could even think to pull the trigger.
He remembers the power flaring in Maul's flaming eyes, the contempt and amusement in his expression as he'd effortlessly ripped the blaster away from Brander with barely a flick of his finger, heedless of his attempts to grab it back, like a parent confiscating something from a naughty child...
Or an owner…from a naughty pet.
He hadn't had time to process how that made him feel in that moment because he was falling unconscious in the next, temple slammed hard into the wall of the corridor thanks to Maul's elbow crashing against it, and darkness arriving shortly after.
But now, mirred in his own corrupt indulgence, kneeling and squirming and covered in cum that wasn't his, there was no room to hide from the thrilled shudder that the memory of feeling so helpless sent through him.
Maul had looked at him like an insect, like he was barely worth the effort to engage.
'Cute,' that devilish smirk had said, 'so cute, that you think your efforts to stop me amount to anything at all.'
Brander presses his thighs together and rocks into the surge of swelling pressure that results, only aware that he's moaned aloud when the tail end of the desperate sound echoes around the still-empty restroom.
Reviewing the initial bank footage and the salvaged tapes from the breakout for hours had been exhausting for more than just his aging eyes and joints, because the mental toll of forcing himself to not notice, and then ignore once he finally did, how Maker-damn handsome Maul was had been a herculean feat in itself.
He'd loved his wife, and the life they'd built with their son until it had all fallen mostly apart. But had he met Maul in his younger, more reckless days as a "traveler", he would definitely have had one more wild and dirty story to share with Rheena over their fizzy Aleenian Fireflies.
The Zabrak was gorgeous, actually, deeply colored and elegantly muscled with a lovely, even crown of horns that looked like perfect handholds. His face had been devastatingly attractive even as he glared and snarled at them, brutality and intelligence mirrored in every expression and motion.
Even through the grainy holo image, the embers of Maul's eyes had burned holes through him, and as Brander's hand drifts slowly down his soaked front, he can see them, holding him frozen in a gaze filled with derision…and maybe...
Maybe interest?
His hips jerk upwards as he gently palms the bulge of his aching cock without really thinking about it, biting back a silent groan as the spice latches on to that thought and sprints with it.
Why had he woken up after Maul's attack? As dangerous and deadly as he was, he could have killed Brander in less than an instant after he was unconscious. Surely sparing him was more effort than just removing him from the equation.
He didn't want to have died and left his son, of course. But why spare him, some old lawman standing in his way? Was it the spice making him imagine seeing that look of dark intrigue on Maul's face before he'd been knocked unconscious?
Brander lets his head fall back against the humid tiling, breathing heavily through his teeth. He was still rubbing himself, just light enough to tease and send agonizing little jolts of pleasure through his system, and it was a doubly sweet torture to think about Maul while doing it.
He knew it was wrong. All of this was wrong. Wrong was an understatement, frankly. But despite- or maybe because of- the danger, and the no doubt horrific reality of Maul's actions and past, he wanted him. Maul was a different type of danger from the run of the mill thugs that passed through his holding cells, or even the ones that he'd sucked off tonight.
Maul was a force himself. A primal, tightly focused rage, like a storm contained in a flimsy bottle. And Brander wanted- NEEDED- to know what that intensity and control felt like while focused on him fully.
To be hoisted up and snatched around effortlessly like that…bent into some unnatural shape, pushed to his knees and made to take whatever Maul had to give him... all while baking under that haughty, ferocious gaze.
He wasn't totally sure he'd survive the experience, which of course has the exact opposite affect on him that it should, and he has to yank his hand away from his crotch when the following stabs of desire and arousal inch a little too close to pushing him over the edge.
He needed to leave. He'd been here too long…he was risking Rylee waking up and realizing he was gone.
Just… Just a few more..? A few more, then he'd go home, wash his shame away, and stuff himself back into the skin of the honorable, respectable police captain, traitorous urges repressed once more for everyone's benefit.
And maybe…maybe with the next few, he could pretend they were someone specific.
He reaches for his spice bag again. There's only a few scant crumbs left. Enough for one last bump to rev up his high, which he does while not allowing himself to wish he had more. In the time it takes for him to stifle the resulting coughs and clear his nose, he misses the sounds of the next person coming in.
Immediately, it feels…different. Expectant, but in a precise way. Not like the ones who'd drunkenly rushed to the bathroom to get a pop off after hearing about it from an equally piss-drunk friend. He has no evidence for it, but it feels like this person had come in looking for him.
Whoever it is, they don't enter one of the stalls. The sani turns on immediately and they spend a long time washing their hands, and then they just…stand there, silently, not moving for even longer. It sets Brander on edge, and again he has to fight back the flutter of fear telling him to run in his ribcage before sticking his finger through the lock hole and beckoning them towards him.
They don't move. But, they do speak.
"Hmm…intriguing," they murmur, quiet but somehow audible over the lingering din outside. "Is the purveyor of this establishment aware that you are providing this…service?" He hears a wet sound- lips pulling over teeth in a smile, or a sneer. "An interesting way to maintain repeat clientele, to be certain.
Brander starts to get instantly annoyed- he usually hates when they start babbling too much and feeling all self important- but it's hard to be irritated at the words themselves when the voice delivering them sounds like that.
His intoxication and the tiling around him echo that voice at him from all directions, a languid, regal, purring baritone that held just a hint of a growl underneath. Maker alive. If he hadn't already been kneeling, his knees would have turned to absolute jelly.
"Or are you just some wanting soul, searching for a razor-edged bliss in the shadowy corners that elude and tempt you?" his visitor muses aloud, clearly in no rush to initiate their encounter.
Brander grits his teeth and bangs his fist once on the side of the stall with the hole, his scowl going unseen. 'Not here to talk.' This guy had a nice voice, sure, but he didn't need some random waxing poetic about how pathetic he was for doing this. He did that enough in his own time.
It gets the point across. The man chuckles, low and smoldering, and Brander hears him move to walk into the stall directly next to his. "Very well. Who am I to deny you your fleeting ecstasy?"
The door shuts, and finally there's the sound of ties and buckles coming undone. Brander shoves away the foolish urge to say 'thank you' and leans expectantly toward the hole, insides writhing. His last spice hit chooses that moment to ramp up, perfectly timed with the newest song and pattern of flashing pink lights.
Brander has his mouth around the guy before he even really gets a good look at it, so desperate to have something there again, and he chokes a bit in surprise, having to open his mouth wider to accommodate. He's sizeable, bigger and thicker than almost everyone else he's had earlier. Judging from the shape of the fleshy protrusions scrubbing over his lips and the exotic flare to the head, he was non-human. The realization whips a hot lash of lust rippling down his spine- back in the day, he'd never been close to picky, and he'd realized fast that a wider variety of shapes and features could do marvelous things to human genitals.
And he tasted good- musky but clean, with a strange, sharp edge to the aroma clinging to his flesh that reminded Brander of ozone and greasing oil. He opens his mouth wider, fluttering his tongue wetly along the ridge of that spiked shaft, resorting to his favorite tease to try to get them to start moving.
"Oh," the man sighs, and it feels like a hot blade skating over Brander's skin, "you are talented at this, aren't you?" He hears another smirk clinging to the end of the words. "Years of vigorous practice, I'm sure."
A smuggler, maybe? He didn't sound like a Pyke. That voice was too smooth for their gravely, gargling usual. And their cocks were far less... pleasant.
"Yes, talented…" they hum, interrupting his thoughts and definitely laughing at him, "and so very eager to please."
They still don't stop talking, and unfortunately, Brander still isn't as upset about it as he should be.
"You are well used," they continue, unaffected by his efforts to distract them even as they lightly rock into his attentions, "but not satisfied, are you? The others you've taken tonight, they've only been concerned with their pleasure. Never yours. Not once."
Brander wants him to shut up, he does, and he should pull his mouth away to say so, but…but that voice is a caress in his mind as well as on his body, pressing close and slipping in to unearth all the nasty little thoughts he's been running from for years.
It's fine. He's had yappers before, he can tune it out and get what he needs from this.
He pulls back and spits all the moisture in his mouth across the shaft and head, darting down with his tongue and lips to slurp it back up before any of it could hit the ground. One of his best tricks, and he doesn't even get a moan for his effort.
It's annoying that he can't get the man to be quiet, but also kind of exciting. Anyone else would be senseless with pleasure and right on the edge of spilling for him, but this guy was making him work for it. It's a sordid challenge he wants to rise to.
"Ah? I see. You ache to be pushed to your limits, and then past them." They sound amused. There's a strange whirring click, as if something mechanical had shifted imperceptibly. The pressure in his mouth increases incrementally as the man moves closer to the hole and starts thrusting- but slooowly, almost teasingly, avoiding the devious flicker of his tongue and never letting him get a steady rhythm going.
Still not enough. He can't quite stop the whine that slips out of him, but he decides to go with it at the last second, making the sound sugary and high pitched when he pulls back to mouth gently at the saltiness welling around the tip. Maybe acting pleading and slutty would urge his patron along. It usually worked with the others.
"Closer. Display for me how much you desire this."
'Haven't I been?' It chafes and sets him further on fire. Miffed, Brander rolls his eyes and gets as close as he dares to the divider. He stops just shy of letting his nose rub against it and opens his mouth as wide and slack as it can go, offering himself fully.
Apparently, it still wasn't good enough.
"Come now, we can do better than that," is the chiding response he receives. He again considers pulling away to finally snap at the asshole, because who exactly does this guy think he is, but two things stop him.
"Closer, I said."
The first is the hardening edge of command that creeps into the man's voice, taking both his irritation and his urge to rebel by the scruff and squashing them both down so that only those cloudy, needy urges stay behind.
The second is…harder to explain. Later, Brander blames his fuzzy recollection on the spice and his own lingering fantasies, because he has no sane explanation that won't absolutely shatter his sense of sanity.
But in the moment, he swears he feels some intangible, heavy weight settle on his shoulders and around his neck, forcing him down harder onto his knees. He loses his balance seemingly against his will, tries to catch himself and fails, arms windmilling wildly until his palms come to a rest against the divider, too far apart to provide any leverage if he tried to jerk back.
... which he attempted, and somehow failed to do. The invisible weight had vanished, but some kind of strange frailty had taken it's place. Brander realized he suddenly felt weak and boneless down to the core of his limbs, unable (or unwilling...?) to pull away. It left him with his nose, mouth and most of his face crushed painfully to the side of the stall, straining both to breathe and keep his teeth from clacking against the humid white duraplas.
"Mmmhm…adequate," the guy huffs, seemingly unconcerned with the sudden loud bang and sounds of panicked struggle. "Now, then..."
And then he punched his hips HARD against the hole, sliding a healthy portion of that ridged cock directly past Brander's lips and down his throat in one smooth, (parting his lips easily with the tip and flare of that barbed head) cruel (for the way he seemed to enjoy and prolong the wretched wet gag that immediately resulted) motion.
"HHh-gaaahhhck-"
His mind immediately screams at him to yank away, but that strange feeling of bonelessness persisted and the most he could do was groan weakly, unnervingly disconnected from himself. His breaths were coming in short, ragged gasps that didn't reach deeply enough into his lungs, made all the harder by the cock still relentlessly thrusting through the hole that his bottom lip was now almost poking through, due to how close he was to it.
There were a million different things to feel and react to. Sparkling pain radiated through his the bridge of his nose and across his mouth and chin thanks to the unforgivable press of the stall, fighting for dominance with the prickling burn of oxygen deprivation and fear growing rapidly in his chest.
The loss of control over his body was still very terrifying, because what in the Sithspit. And to Brander's personal shock and everlasting shame, underpinning all of it was the heady, desperate lust that hadn't dissipated in the slightest. It seethes and bubbles in his gut like the acid fields at the edge of the city's underground, sharper and hotter than it had been all night. Despite the lack of air, he's hard enough to bludgeon someone to death.
All those sensations twine together with the vestiges of his high and strangle his higher reasoning, leaving only fear and submission behind. The next noise he emits is a loud whine that's half terror, half pleading, and fully, genuinely pathetic, and Brander would be horrified to hear it coming from himself if he could hold more than half a scrap of thought in his head at one time.
His ears are going muzzy, but he still registers a discontented sound from the other side of the stall, a disappointed hmph that cuts through him like a laser scalpel.
You're failing.
"Comport yourself," the man demands, in a tone that leaves Brander wanting to cower. He musters the strength to do all of meekly shake his head, smearing sweat and drool across the divider.
'I can't...need to breathe... please..."
Like he can hear his thoughts (and maybe he can), the man grunts and pulls back a bit, pausing his steady thrusts. Brander senses the offered reprieve for what it is and takes it, sucking in greedy mouthfuls of air. It steadies him a little and lets him get his overclocked emotions slightly under control. His fearful trembling slows to a relieved shiver, and the fog clears from his ears just in time for him to hear that odd mechanical clicking again. It sounds, impossibly, like a warning.
Comport yourself, slut...or else.
He heeds it. Not sparing any time to think, he rushes to shuffle and wiggle himself into a more comfortable position... or as much as he can while still having his face smushed into the partition.
The man tsks as his first return thrust scrapes non-gently over Brander's bottom teeth. He quickly makes to rectify it, flexing his tongue out and flattening it into a wet cushion for those stiffening protrusions to rub over.
"Mm. Better." The approval is a burning balm to every part of him. "I expect gratitude. I'm giving you what you yearn for, am I not?"
Yes. The thought came from somewhere deep inside, quick and decisive in a way Brander couldn't even question or deny. He hadn't known it, but this tangle of fear, arousal, pain and control... it was exactly what he'd wanted to find every single time, in every single one of his partners.
"Whatever purpose you faithfully endure in the day," they continue, tone still smooth and modulated like they were having a two sided conversation about Botekiin instead of in the middle of an intense blowjob, "you truly wish it was this, do you not?" They emphasize the word by leaning forward and rooting themselves hard in Brander's gaping mouth for a few seconds too long, daring him to gag again. He misses the firm tickle of the head at the back of his throat immediately when they withdraw and continue, seemingly pleased by his resilience.
"Wouldn't that be better? On your knees always, hour after hour, serving as release and relief only? I think so."
The image that paints is one of him in a dark corner of the station or somewhere way more seedy and foul than Sul's, tied up and forgotten about for ages until someone came to use him and it's absolutely filthy, so it instantly makes something empty and yearning clamp down in Brander's stomach and sets his shame burning anew. He can feel how much he's drooling- it's starting to pool in his cheeks and on his tongue to run in slow trickles out of the corner of his mouth- but he can hear it too, a soft and dirty schlorp-shluck as it's dragged in and out and displaced by the man's length.
The tiles are mercliless in amplifying and echoing it back at him. He can't tell if the steady drips he hears are from the sanis or from the wetness hitting the floor beneath him.
"How ashamed you must feel, to be reduced to this pitiful state in order to fulfill that desire."
Is this really happening? Maybe he's just higher than he'd realized on abnormally strong grade of spice, and all of this was a hallucination. It would explain how this random man was somehow giving voice to his hidden thoughts. That silky, dulcet voice was relentless with clawing out his innermost desires and secrets and laying them out, bloody and naked, right there in that lowly bathroom, impossible to deny.
Again the tip of that cock presses insistent on the tight space at the apex of Brander's throat, giving him seconds to relax it as much as he was able before it was pushing through, relentless and claiming. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered what his voice was going to sound like the next day, if he had one at all.
"So needy," the man croons, a mocking undertone to his syrupy words. "Poor thing. Did others reject you, when they realized what it took to maintain you?"
A flash of pain that isn't tied to any pleasure knifes through his chest as an image of his ex flickers across his mind. They'd loved each other, true... but their disagreement on the Empire hadn't been the only area in which there were rough edges to their compatibility. She'd enjoyed a bit of dirty talk and 'yes ma'am, no ma'am' in the bedroom, but balked when he'd asked her to do things like slap him until he bruised or mark him up with her nails. He never worked up the bravery to ask her to penetrate him, knowing she'd think it was odd, or 'too vulnerable' for a man in his station.
"How deliberately they mismanaged you," the man tuts, dragging him away from those stinging memories and back to the present, "to bring you this low." He sounds genuinely disappointed. "Such a wassste..." the end of that word breaks off into an appreciative hiss when Brander curls the tip of his tongue into a sharp point to trace the thick vein at the bottom, draining yet more precum out into the lake of it collecting in his waiting mouth, "of a truly lovely brand of devotion. They failed, ingrates that they are, to recognize what they possessed."
The thrusts are coming faster and harder now, battering the sensitive flesh in the depths of his gullet. He feels it in every nerve and extremity, scrambling whatever remained of his thoughts and punching wet little sounds out of his chest that he wasn't consciously making. It's all he can do to remember to breathe through his nose in tiny increments while straining to keep his mouth lax and inviting.
"Mm-glhph...Mm-glhph...Mm-glhphhh..."
"Mmmm…yes. Yes, that's it," the man says. There's finally a hint of breathlessness to his voice. His composure is slipping, just slightly. "Your reward is close at hand. Struggle for it. Earn it."
The whirring gets louder, as does the sound of something hard knocking against the stall. Brander starts when the shape sliding against his lower lip suddenly begins to change, something firm and lined more densely with those fleshy spikes trapping his skin more tightly against the duraplas. It's hot and throbbing, and he has an inkling of what it might be when he presses his mouth further into the hole to suckle weakly at it.
The man barks out a rough, dark laugh. "Greedy, but commendable. Do you even know what that is?" Infuriatingly, he doesn't press it through the hole for Brander to worship it properly. He keeps it just out of reach of his begging lips and twitching tongue. "Had I the time, I'd give it to you as a prize for your efforts."
Brander can feel the presence of the savage smile in his words. "It would hurt, and probably crack your jaw. But I suspect you'd enjoy that immensely, wouldn't you?"
It was, and he would. The confirmation makes Brander shudder. The few times he'd had a species with an actual knot, he'd also been too young, stupid and probably drunk to fully appreciate it. He could only remember brief snatches of the experience; an unbelievable stretch and fullness inside that had felt nearly unbearable, almost dangerous, and immeasurable pleasure that had him ripping at the sheets with his nails and sweating from every pore.
His ass and belly clench in a ripple of want that twists through his entire lower half, leaving him vacant and throbbing. He wishes he could tear his face away from the wall and present his other end to it instead, or even just reach down and rub his own cock to relieve the painfully spiking pressure, but he can't, he can still barely move on his own accord. He has to kneel there and endure this and only this, a denial he has no control over. It hurts and it feels amazing. He loves and hates it. His beard and shirt are drenched, but the moisture in his mouth is mainly precum.
He never wants this to end.
The man is still talking. There's a feral scrape to the edge of his words now, hinting at what's coming.
"You will squander none of this," he snarls, thunderous and irresistible in Brander's mind. He can taste every syllable. "You will take it all, and you will be appreciative in that as well. I will hear every drop slide down your wanton throat."
Yesyesyesyes give it to me, give it to me I've been so good, I'm readypleasepleaseple-
Thinking becomes impossible as the last few sets of thrusts come wild and unfettered, slamming into Brander's mouth hard enough to nearly force him away from the divider or fracture the bridge of his nose, or both, and then... heat. Liquid, viscous heat floods his mouth and filled in every fragment of space not filled by the man's cock, jetting against his gag reflex from its snug position right under it. He races to pucker his lips into a tight ring and puff his cheeks out to keep it all inside, swallowing desperately before his body could make him be disobedient.
At some point during this, disappointing this man had become absolutely unthinkable, the worst kind of sin to commit against someone making him feel so karking good.
Speaking of... his visitor talks him through that, too, sighing out rumbling compliments and encouragement as he moaned and squirmed and drank down a truly impressive amount of cum (that, strangely and not terribly, left a kind of earthy herbal‐ish taste on his tongue that he didn't hate) knowing and lamenting that that knot was emptying into his stomach instead of where he truly wanted it.
After what feels like an eternity later, the deluge lightens, then stops. The man circles his hips slowly and drags his softening length around the inside of Brander's sticky mouth one last time, savoring it and his total submission.
"When you are ready...to accept what you are," he says finally, calm and impenetrably collected again, "someone deserving of that devotion will claim you. Someone…capable, of truly unmaking and rebuilding you. Until then, my yearning pet…"
The smirk is back, silent and knowingly smug. "Enjoy the fruits of your humiliation. And know that more and better awaits you, should you ever find the courage to seek it out."
He pulls out with no warning, and the world comes coldly crashing back down around Brander's ears. The space around him constricts, then relaxes, and suddenly he can move again, falling limp and unsupported against the far wall of the stall. His mind is vacant and buzzing pleasantly, running on autopilot to keep him inhaling and exhaling while his entire nervous system worked to reset itself.
He feels warm all over, the kind that came from bone deep satisfaction and didn't care what the actual temperature was. He sits there for an unknown amount of time, barely registering the sound of the guy leaving and two more people coming in after him. One of them even knocks hopefully on the stall a few times, and thankfully it spurs him out of his trance enough to raise one leg and place the flat of his shoe against the hole so they couldn't peek through. They curse him for it, but Brander couldn't care less. He feels relaxed, manually unwound in a way he hasn't been in years.
He couldn't think about what the kriff had just happened if his life depended on it, or who that could have been, or even how disgusting he was for participating in it eagerly. The shame, trepidation, stress over his case load... all of it was gone. His throat was wrecked, so sore and swollen he wasn't positive he'd be able to speak without some sort of bacta, and even then there would probably be a lingering rasp left over to incriminate him. There was a cold puddle of something heavier than precum making a dark stain in the crotch of his pants. He'd cum at some point and hadn't even noticed.
It didn't matter- he was still burning inside and writhing around that empty yearning urge that the knot and the man's cruel, decadent words had left behind. He'd barely recovered, and already he wanted more and more and more.
Quaking, Brander reaches up to scrub at the drying tear tracks going itchy on his cheeks.
He was going to fuck himself blind when he got home, with every toy he possessed... if he ever gathered the strength to stand and leave. And then, and only then, would he allow himself to ponder (and maybe look it up) if Zabraks were a knotting species. Just for his own...satisfaction.
Regardless. He hoped that man, whoever he was, was staying on Janix for a while yet.