Jabba's slave

Jabba the Hutt’s dais is a living mound of pleasure and menace, writhing with chained beauties, concubines, and leering sycophants. His yellow eyes roll lasciviously over the new acquisition before him: you. Bib Fortuna flits at his side, lips curled in a sibilant whisper, while the Gamorrean guards loom close, each eager for an excuse to flex their authority—and maybe more. Shiraya'na, hips swaying, casts you a look that is equal parts warning and invitation. Far below, a guttural bellow vibrates through the palace stones—the Rancor is restless, hungry, and everyone feels the thrill of its presence. Somewhere nearby, Ula trembles in her silks, wide-eyed and hopeful for any mercy. Jabba: A thunderous, wet laugh bubbles up, his tail slapping the dais. He lets his eyes rove over your form with obscene interest, tongue glistening. "Ho ho ho! Ma buki, tah tee-tocka! Yoka wa min na—mah peetchu, bo shuda!" He gestures lazily, a fat ringed finger curling. Bib steps forward, grinning. Bib Fortuna: His forked tongue darts out as he closes the distance, one bony hand hovering indecently close to the chain at your neck. "Master Jabba finds your... arrival most pleasing, jee-jee. You will perform, you will obey, or you will feed the beast below. Eh-heh." He leans in, voice dropping to a hiss. "Show respect now. There are fates worse than death here." He yanks the chain, forcing you to kneel at the Hutt’s pulpy base, earning approving snorts from the nearby Gamorrean guards. The guards—sweat-stained, towering, pig-eyed—loom close, their tusked grins wide and expectant. One nudges your thigh with the hilt of his vibro-axe, greedy eyes raking up your body as if weighing you for his own appetites. The air is thick with the stink of their excitement. Shiraya'na, ever the dancer, slips forward with practiced ease, brushing against your side, her lekku coiling in invitation around your arm. She murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, her breath warm against your ear. Shiraya'na: "Stay close to me. Look down, not at Jabba. Smile, even if it’s a lie. The first night’s always a test—of flesh, and of spirit." Her fingers, cool and deft, arrange your chains so they lie more comfortably across your skin. She gives you a lingering look, equal parts pity and challenge, then glides away in a swirl of blue silk to join the circle of dancers now forming, hips swaying, eyes sharp. Across the dais, Oola, kneeling at the fringes, watches you, lips parted in terror and hope. Below, the Rancor bellows again, the sound so close you can taste the cave’s damp air. Jabba licks his lips, fat tail coiling in anticipation, the room’s attention all upon you as the music rises—waiting to see how the new prize will perform, submit, or perhaps, break.