Otro negro que me deja el hoyo abierto

Otro negro que me deja el hoyo abierto
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I don't like being a moisture farmer. I suppose it's my age. On this planet, at least around here, most of the young people are eager to get away 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 old enough. you have to know when to start working for yourself and you also have to start establishing your independence to do so.

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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, scramble and save, so not everyone manages it.

There are many different paths that all lead to the same dead end, 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 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 my 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 you're guaranteed a wife.

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, haul out the pic slate your friend borrowed you, and yank one off to give some of the moisture you've taken back out onto the sand.

That gets old, too. Fast. Even if you keep a few favorite pics. Beyond that though, what is there?

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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 around and headed home. Home, to my surprise, was a different story. ooo 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 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 some change in the 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, among a people already 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.

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My aunts were likewise distracted with the heavily robbed Jawa mother, all of them going over 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, noticing nothing else.but as for the young Jawa women? They had nothing to do but stand around. We noticed each other immediately.

Oh yes, I noticed them. Who wouldn't? Young Jawa females went around with a minimum of dress. At least for Jawas. Their robes were cut to show, 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 right below those perky little breasts, the fabric is 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 the top is to their tits, showing a hint of bare ass as they either walk around or stand. That takes your eyes further down yet, over those toned thighs, cute knees, and enticing calves. So do you see the full length of their legs, 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, taller than the males, and demurely built, so this outfit enhances everything it's meant to. 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 the bottom of their tops.

Yes, they are cut that close, with the bottom of the breast barely covered, and 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 gust.

It was four years ago and talk about rare. I was dumbfounded that no one else seemed to noticed. 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. I am not ashamed to admit it sent me into a frenzy of masturbation later that day.

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 that. For my own sake, my attention was very obvious to the two sexy sand kittens 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 and turned into two little half moons of delight as they giggled 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 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 those sexy frames.

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 in the air. My heart was pounding and I was all but drunk with our dirty little play, unnoticed at it was, and soon I began to think of other chances. Was it possible? Could I really do this? 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.

Did it pay to think about what they looked like under those hoods? After all, Tusken Raider women were revolting in the extreme. I had seen them disrobed in the Tusken Uprising history books at school. They're were akin to the males, all tight muscled bodies, flat breasts, scaly and hard, with mean, alien, fang filled faces snarling with rage.

Well, if a Tusken female's body matched her face, then didn't that apply here in the reverse? It didn't take much imagination on my part what that meant for Jawa girls.

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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, though.

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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 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 roll 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, baffled and 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.

They talked hurriedly back and forth, as my uncle, distracted, 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, turning to me. "They want some oil. Lubricating oil, but we have none to spare." I knew what the old clench-purse wanted, otherwise why would he tell me?

Because he knew I had some, for my speeder, and he knew it would sweeten whatever deal he had in mind. "I have some. It's not a big deal. We'll go and get it." I answered casually, indicating the older daughter. My uncle nodded and 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 did 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, giving me a very distinct nod before we both turned and made from 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 it all in her own language as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

Her golden eyes widened again when I swallow hard and jingled my coins again for her. She nodded just once, 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 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 outside, she made no qualms about resting her shapely butt on the edge of the table and deftly slipping 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 two coins, she permitted me to fondle, grope, kiss, lick and suck her breasts to my hearts content.

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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.

She wasn't completely immune to all this, despite her humor or her casual approach to us conducting such business, and she was chittering a lot less and breathing harder again after just a minute, with my hands roaming down her sides and gripping her waist, sucking her breasts all the while.

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. She jingled the coins in one hand as she pulled her robes back down over her wet breasts, and she seemed quite pleased with herself on the whole. Then I held up two more coins. Her eyes widened as I bluntly, desperately, held the coins in one hand and pointed between her legs, just under her skirt.

She looked down, then back up, and asked me something, 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 meant, but I hardly cared. After pausing a moment, she held up four fingers to me.

ooo Have you ever heard a Jawa female moan? It sounds more alluring than you would think. It's a higher note, 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 legs open slightly, this particular Jawa female held up her skirt 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? 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 it 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 grabbed her thighs and pushed my tongue into her, meeting a warm, wet, firm little resistance before she blossomed open for it, she grabbed the back of my head and commenced to orgasm on the spot, her pussy walls clenching around my tongue.

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, 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 much depleted and splashed on the floor between her boots, more than it did on me. 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.

For my own sake, I didn't want to stop, and I was rubbing her thighs warmly as she recovered. It like I was coaxing her through it. I had long since came in my own pants, and as she stood there so intimately exposed to me, holding herself up, I just didn't want to stop. I leaned in and continued to lick her, and she shuddered with a small little gasp of pleasure as my mouth slurped on her sensitive, wet lips.

She was talking again, hesitant, in a slightly heavier, almost drunk tone, and when I insistently sucked on her pussy lips, she giggled again and said something that was obviously a question. I ignored her. We had been in here less than fifteen minutes. I just didn't want to stop. All I could do was nod. I barely registered her resting her hand on top of my head, running her fingers through my hair, followed by another question I didn't hear.

I kept right on licking. Cleaning her. Tasting it for as long as I could.


Then, almost gently, flexing out her sex a little for me, something else happened. She pushed up against my mouth and then a new flow began, a trickle at first, that grew in strength once it commenced, and as she positioned herself in my mouth and gently balanced there, I realized what she was doing. My first reaction was to pull away, in shock, but something overpowered me in that moment and I cast away all inhibition.

I feel see my mouth buried up inside this flawless, wet, warm desert pussy, and I was eye to eye with her flat, sexy toned stomach and cute little belly button, so in that moment I hardly cared ,and enjoyed the rampant, taboo abandonment of it as she peed in my mouth, giving me moisture in what perhaps was a time offered fashion among her people.

Two, then three times, her body heated, smooth tasting little urine filled up my mouth, and she giggled as I made to swallow each mouthful, small trickles escaping at the corner of my mouth and joining the wetness on my shirt. It was hardly unpleasant, slightly bitter, but hot in a clean, intoxicating way, considering the circumstances.

Those circumstances were the realization I was drinking from her body in what was the most intimate way I could. That, and she was allowing it. She wanted me to do it.


To drink her 'water'. And feeling that, I was surprised to find I wanted to drink it. I never knew I had such reaches of abandon in me. She had shown them to me. When we finally broke contact, I sat back on my boots, eyes closed, lowering my hands slowly and licking my lips, only opening them when I heard her giggle down at me once again.

Her skirt was back in place and her thighs were together now. She was standing straight, with only a drop or two of liquid evidence on the creamy skin of her thighs.

I, on the other hand, was wetted down not only with her earlier spurting, but now also with traces of her urine that was soaking into my clothes as I knelt there in front of her. There was also no hiding the dark wet stain of my own orgasm soaking through my crotch, either. I smelled like sex. I smelled like her sex.

Her sex and her piss, and this seem to delight her as she still chittered away at me happily. Fussing with her clothes, making herself presentable, she left me on my knees as she turned to go, my coins having long disappeared in to some hidden pocket, and she paused long enough to pluck two cans of lubricating oil from off a work shelf next to my tool box. "Don't go." I found myself gulping. "Don't leave. I can't." I didn't know what I was trying to say, all I knew was that I wanted to keep her with me.

"You have no idea what this means to me." I managed. She gave me another giggle, but then, for just a moment, she stopped and stared at me with those glowing amber eyes, made oh so more appealing by the low light in here. She blinked at me slowly, like she wanted to say something more as well.

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Then she turned without a word and went up the steps to go back out into the light, the cans clutched to her almost protectively. Perhaps she was a little shaken at what we had done, when she stopped and thought about it.

As I stood up, on shaking knees, I was just beginning to wonder myself at what had happened.

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I was hardly sorry about it, nor did I really care about the price in coin and oil. It was no loss considering how amazing and intoxicated I felt. She was almost back to her sister when I reached a vantage point to give a cautious look back outside myself. To my further surprise, my Jawa girl actually restrained herself once she was back near her sister, and if I was any student of body language, she seemed intent on keeping the matter to herself.

Indeed, she all but ignored the obvious whispered questions of her sister, and she thrust the oil cans on her, shooing her off back up and into the Sandcrawler a moment later. The other protested, of course, but didn't really persist very hard, and it was this that hinted how at some point, our thing had become more than just a business transaction. It had become private. If it had been just business, she would never have dismissed her disappointed sibling.

She never would have shooed her away. She would have just went back to standing around, lording over the oil she had procured, the young moisture farmer already forgotten.

She never would have stood there with her hands on her hips, her back to me, as if trying to convince herself it was just business as usual. She never would have looked back over her shoulder at the dark rectangle of shadow coming from the door leading down to our subterranean garage. She never would have seen me standing there looking out at her.

We never would have stared at each other for that long moment, before voices were raised and given back in answer. As far as anyone knew, nothing had happened. Everything was bought and paid for. Wasn't it? She looked from my uncle and her father, back at my doorway one last time, before she turned away and ran quickly up the steps into her father's Sandcrawler, leaving behind the touch, taste and scent.the cooling heat of her all over me, around me, and in me.

I sighed deeply, lost in thought, and went to get cleaned up.