The Jawa Girl

I don't like being a moisture farmer. I suppose it's my age. On this planet, or at least in the desert communities, most of the young people are eager to get out before it's too late. Too late meaning that time slips by before you know it, and then one day you wake up to the fact you're not going anywhere. Then it's what? Inherit the dusty, parched plots of land that stretch away as far as the eye can see? A few sun baked buildings up top, but living under the surface just to escape the sand storms and heat?

I know it's a narrow window. If you're not out of here by the age of twenty five, you never will be. The trick is, once you're past childhood, you have to know when to start working for yourself and you also have to start establishing your independence to do so. You have to start saving. Some families won't lift a finger to help you, others will sabotage your efforts, and some know you'll never be able to escape no matter how much you scrape and scramble, so not everyone manages it. There are many different paths that all lead to the same dead end life, and it looms over us young folk like a constant terror the older we get.

For my own sake, I'm twenty one and it's looking pretty grim. What I have socked away, and what extra work and money I struggle to find, doesn't seem like it will be enough. My family isn't exactly impeding my efforts, but neither are they going out of their way to help, and sadly some of my money is called upon for repairs and to make up for losses in the crop as time goes on.

And that's it. A desperate race against time. Against being consigned to a generational go-nowhere. I could go on about it, but I don't want to. Like I usually spend my days, I would rather find some kind of distraction than think about the present state of affairs, but guess what? That's almost as hard to do as saving enough money to break away on your own. When the nearest neighbor can only be reached by landspeeder, and the farms stretch out for hundreds of miles in every direction, what is there to do? Girls? You want to talk about girls? Didn't you just hear me? I know of two girls around my age and they're caught up in the same sorry scramble of moisture farming as I am. When is there time and or opportunity to even see a girl, much less have her be your girlfriend? And we don't want to talk about the arranged marriages among the water clans.

The thing is, I'm bored zipping around the dunes with my droid and hunting rifle. I had enough of that as a teen. When it's the only entertainment, it gets old fast, and like most other guys my age, the very idea of women grows in our minds so much, a day may come when you decide to actually stay on at home for the fact that some day a marriage will be arranged. That's something at least, right? Wrong. The girls have a harder time getting away than the boys, and when they're palmed off as wives, they're usually so bitter and hateful over it, they take it out on their husbands. No thank you.

So what do I do about girls? Well, the usual I guess. There's some old, grainy downloads that have made the rounds among us farm boys for decades. Brought back from the space port by someone ages ago, showing the same cheap women in the same cheap outfits, posing all trashy and the like. Then you just find a rock to hide behind, haul out the pic slate your friend borrowed you, and speed one off to give back some of the moisture you've taken out onto the sand. That gets old, too. Fast. Even if you keep a few favorite pics. Beyond that though, what is there? And today, as I sat in the shade of a large rock, my speeder rocking on it's anti-grav plates a little as I yanked at my cock, it just wasn't enough. I couldn't even get excited enough to come close to cumming, but I was horny enough to stay hard, and eventually I played with my dick just for the sake of it feeling good. After a time I sighed, tucked it away so it would go down on it's own, and hit the power convertor.

I was so bored. I could have screamed it at the top of my lungs, but I didn't. I was too bored and disappointed even for that. I just turned the speeder around and headed for home.

Home, to my surprise, was a different story.

-------

My surprise were Jawas. They're seen pretty infrequently when it comes to that, and not at all when they don't wish to be, but they do make the rounds among the farms just when things seem to be at their most boring. Perhaps they capitalize on that very thing. An innate sense of timing that's good for business since even the older folks will perk up at a chance for a change in routine. A time for a little barter and trade. I didn't care about any of that, though, once I hopped out of my speeder and saw the Jawa females. They're rare to be seen, and to add one surprise on top of the other, there were several of them. Was this particular Jawa family leader some kind of stud out among the dunes? Did he have an above average amount of daughters or something? Who knows? But there he was, haggling over droids and parts with my uncle, oblivious to anything except the purse my uncle had on him. My aunts were likewise distracted with the heavily robbed Jawa mother, all of them going on about the smaller gadgets and appliances meant for homesteads. Likewise, the young Jawa males were pouring over their Sandcrawler with rags and wrenches and oil cans during this stop, intent on nothing else, but as for the young Jawa women? They had nothing to do but stand around. We noticed each other immediately.

You don't know about Jawa women? Well, they're taller than the males by quite a stretch. So much so, they're on par with our own girls, really. Even so, they'd still be indescribable from the rest if it wasn't for one thing. Young Jawa females went around with a minimum of dress. At least for Jawas. Their robes were cut to show, and show they did, and in my present state of frustrated arousal, from here they looked yummy. Who knows what rules govern Jawa culture? They seem to make nothing of the fact the girls are practically naked by their standards. Gone are the full body robes. What's left, of course, is the usual hooded and hidden upper features, with their graceful arms still being fully sleeved, but down below those perky little breasts are barely covered by the fabric that's been cut away to show off their alluring stomachs and narrow waists, which leads your eyes down to those shapely rear ends and hips that are wrapped in what amounts to nothing but a rag of a skirt. That skirt is cut as high on the thigh as possible, showing a hint of bare ass as they either walk around or stand still. That takes your eyes further down yet, over those toned thighs, cute knees, and enticing calves, before they finish the look with a pair of what can only be called 'cute' desert boots.

It works. Trust me, it works. They are perfectly proportioned and sexy, lithe,and demurely built, and the cut of those 'robes' enhance everything they expose. What's more, the girls seem to make light of the blowing winds shifting around them, careless of how it blows up a corner of their skirt now and then, or, what's even better, blowing up their tops.

Yes, they are cut that close, and with the bottom of the breast barely covered, one gust of strong wind can show you all you want to see. On one such occasion, I caught a glimpse of a Jawa girl's breasts full on as the wind kicked up around her in a sudden gust. It was four years ago and talk about a rare sight. I was dumbfounded that no one else seemed to noticed. Or care. But I sure did. Those sublime, round little mounds could have fit into my hand like they were made for it, and her naked, small, dark nipples were raised up and hard right in the center of each breast. I am not ashamed to admit it sent me into a frenzy of masturbation all later that day. The Jawa girl hardly seemed to notice herself, and it was only by the chance of the wind her breasts were covered again after several seconds of letting me feast my eyes on her naked self. I never asked, nor cared, if my friends experienced anything like that. Some people are repulsed by Jawas. Some people are partners with them. Most look down on them, but everyone trades with them. And that's the way of things.

For my own sake, my attention was very obvious to these two sexy sand kittens now standing next to an old power droid their father had for sale.

I stopped in my tracks and stared at them, and suddenly the golden orbs of their hooded eyes blinked in surprised when they noticed me. Those eyes turned into two little half moons of delight as they started giggling in my direction. To be more accurate, they giggled in the direction of my hard on. I was startled as I realized my cock had responded to these Jawa females all on it's own, and it was straining in a direct tent out from my dune trousers right at them. Well, that wouldn't go unnoticed for long! I made some excuse to quickly sit down on the fender of my speeder, praying my family wouldn't ask me to come over and lend a hand. Fortunately, for once, my aunts and uncles being tight fisted worked in my favor, since they never really included me in such trades lest I ask for something they didn't want to spend money on. Even at twenty one, they still thought of me as a kid, so they were happy to leave me where I was, just as the Jawa father was happy to leave his daughters standing around. After my initial shock, with the two females still giggling, I realized here was a rare chance for some thing extraordinary.

I shifted again to show them my obvious bulge, and let my eyes roam over them freely, up and down and around their sexy bodies. The girls ate it up, of course, and suddenly were making a show of meticulously cleaning the old droid, finding reasons to bend over at the waist, pose, slide and shift around seductively, and generally just exaggerating what they already knew what was on display. I sure enjoyed the show. They were giving me little peeks of under boob and the like, and giggling as they gave the back of their skirts little flips up in the air. My heart was pounding and I was all but drunk with our dirty little play, unnoticed as it was, and soon I began to think of other opportunities.

Was it possible something else was for sale here? Could I really do this? Should I? Feel this way about Jawas? Could I really find myself wanting to? Well, it certainly was worth a try to see how far it would go, but even as I formulated a plan in my mind, I again questioned my attraction to them. Looking was one thing, but would I, could I, actually want, or do more? With some faceless Jawa? After all, some peoples revulsion of Jawas were that they didn't trust them, stemming from how you could never see their faces, bu did it pay to think about what they looked like under those hoods? After all, Tusken Raider women were revolting. I had seen them disrobed in the Tusken Uprising history books at school. They're were akin to the males. All ugly, mean gristle and flat breasts.

Well, if a Tusken female's body matched her face, wouldn't that logic apply here in the reverse? It didn't take much imagination on my part what that meant for Jawa girls and their amazing bodies. I took in the lithe sexiness on display in front of me, and my arousal increased. Not that these girls would ever show me their face. That was all but a myth, and had never happened to anyone, but right then and there I didn't need a face. What I needed was a chance to be alone with one of them just for a few minutes. Still displaying my obvious erection, I took out my purse from the neck of my boot and jingled it in my hand.

The result was immediate.

Those golden orbs widened in surprise, but then seemed to slide over into a darker, more mischievous shade of amber. They nodded eagerly in excitement at me, barely able to contain themselves, and soon they were whispering together in that tilting, excited little chirp that passed for Jawa language. I stayed where I was, befuddled at what was to come, but the girls had obviously taken the lead and after a moment of debate, the taller one nodded firmly and then looked up past her sister to call out to her patron father. He turned to her from where he was busy with my uncle and they talked hurriedly back and forth, as my uncle looked on peevishly. Finally their father spoke to my uncle, then his daughter, ending by making all kinds of gestures in the air, with some of them made in my direction. My uncle kept nodding, hearing him out impatiently.

"Arion!" he called out to me and I braced myself. "They want some oil. Lubricating oil, but we have none to spare."

So that was it. I knew what the old clench-purse wanted, otherwise why would he include me? Because he knew I had some lubricating oil, for my speeder, and he knew it would sweeten whatever deal he had in mind with the father.

"I have some. It's not a big deal. I'll go and get it." I answered casually.

"She'll go with you." my uncle replied, indicating the older daughter, and with that they went back to their haggling.

My mouth was dry for more reasons than the desert heat, but I managed to make a show of fussing around my speeder like I was getting ready to head off for the garage, as the Jawa father chattered out some last minute instructions to his daughter. Of course this transaction pleased both him and my uncle, who could barely hide his pleasure at my giving in so easily. He probably thought I was finally getting on board with the running of the farm. He had no idea what I really had in mind.

The Jawa daughter knew though, the one who had spoken turning back to look directly at me now, her golden eyes shining in her hood, and when I stopped and looked over at her, she came walking over to me, her gaze never wavering. The obvious hard on jutting out from my trousers elicited another giggle from her sister, but the taller one who had been elected as my oil buyer seemed to breathe a little faster as she came up to me. The rise and fall of her perky little breasts was utterly a pleasure, and she gave me a very distinct nod before we both turned and made for the round, recessed dome of the garage that led down underground.

Once inside those cool, shadowed confines, little time was wasted. The Jawa girl only paused long enough to raise a pretty finger up in front of her hood with a 'shhh' gesture, and she turned and looked back out and up the steps to make sure everyone was supposed to be where they were. It would be a good hour yet, judging from the looks of heavy bargaining going on, and so we were more or less safe. She straightened back up with a giggle, turning back to me and chittering about this all in her own language as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Her golden eyes widened again when I swallow hard and again jingled my coins at her. She nodded eagerly, her delicate hands held at her sides, and as I started counting out coins, she continued to 'talk' to me as we stood on opposite sides of the narrow access way.

I didn't have a chance of understanding a word of what she said, but somehow, more through tone than anything, we completed our bargain. Once she had two of my coins in her hand, she took me by my own, and led me further back into the building, stopping at the first workshop to lean up against a work table. There, making sure she could still see the square light of the door leading to the outside, she made no qualms about resting her shapely butt on the edge of the table and deftly flipping up the front of her cut robe to expose the soft, perfect mounds of her tits. There she stood, her naked breasts on display, and while she admired and giggled happily over the coins, she permitted me to fondle, grope, kiss, lick and suck her breasts all to my hearts content.

They were incredibly soft to the touch, pliable yet firm, with a lingering scent of cinnamon, and warm as fresh baked bread from the noon day heat. Her nipples lengthened even more as their hard ends found their way into my mouth, and I groaned at the feel of them, dark and succulent against my tongue, as I rolled them around and suckled her. There's no way to really describe it. Of all things in the galaxy, the touch and feel of a female breast is like no other to a young man dying of thirst in the desert.

She wasn't completely immune to all of this either, despite her humor or her casual approach to us conducting such business. She was chittering a lot less now and breathing harder after just a minute, with my hands roaming down her sides and gripping her waist, caressing her succulent body with my thumbs, and sucking her breasts for all I was worth. Eventually though, in greater control of herself than I, she pulled back a little, giggling as she gently pushed me back away from her chest, before happily chittering away again and hefting the money in her hand. Time was up, apparently. She clicked the coins shut in her fist as she pulled her robes back down in place over her wet nipples, and she seemed quite pleased with herself on the whole that this transaction was concluded.

Then I held up two more coins.

Her eyes widened as I bluntly, desperately, held the coins in one hand and pointed down right between her legs, just under her skirt. She looked down, then back up, and asked me something more, which again I had no chance of understanding. Seeing this, she made a kissing sound from the dark recesses of her hood as she leaned back and pantomimed lifting up her skirt. She made the kissing sound again, telling me what my two coins would buy. I nodded eagerly, forgetting any thoughts of actual sex, since I was surprised she was making another kind of offer altogether. It hadn't been exactly what I wanted, but I hardly cared. After pausing a moment, she held up four fingers to me.

Four coins.

-------

Have you ever heard a Jawa female moan? It sounds more alluring than you would think. It's a higher note, yet soft and musical, and definitely apart from their usual chatter, but moan she did. With her butt resting again on the edge of the table, and her thighs parted, this particular Jawa female held up her skirt up and let me lick her pussy as much as I had her nipples. More so. She just tilted her robbed head back and moaned in ecstasy as I went down on her, kneeling down in front of her and holding her by her hips, my face buried between her legs.

What was it like? Well, it was definitely a pussy. As sweet and clean and unblemished as you could imagine. Hairless, as is the way of all desert people, and again with that lingering scent of cinnamon, it tasted absolutely divine as my tongue explored the soft, dark textured folds of her labia. When I wasn't making the motions of licking her sex up and down, she did so herself, bobbing her knees slightly in this little rhythm, as she washed her wet pussy up and down my face. She was all but gasping by then, and when I slid my hands around and grabbed her bare ass, pushing my tongue into her opening, she grabbed the back of my head and commenced to orgasm on the spot, her pussy walls clenching around my tongue before her juices poured out of her.

Was it different than one of my own kind? I had no way of knowing. I had never been with a girl of my own kind, but what happened with that Jawa girl left me stunned and drunk with ecstasy. In that moment, her body released such a torrent of pussy juice, it was all I could do to keep up. Even then I didn't manage it, so she thrust my face back out of her crotch, giving out what amounted to a Jawa type little snarl, and her pussy, to my utter shock, squirted hard not once, but twice, right out at me! Striking me in the face and throat and spurting down over my shirt, where it immediately soaked in to the dry fabric. A third little spurt of clear juice came out of her much depleted and dribbled to the floor between her boots, more than it did on me and then she all but collapsed back against the table when it was over, letting go of my hair and breathing harder than I was. She had to hold herself up by her hands, needing the table edge for support. Her cute little knees were almost touching as her orgasm finished washing through her, having nearly made her double over at it's intensity.