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ekrochford · 1 month ago

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Maul x femreader NSFW self-insert fanfic (part 1/10)

[First off, I'll admit right here and now that this might be the most vile thing I've ever written, so under 18 gotta git. I know you lied on you birth year. Second, I'm a slightly-feral Maul girlie, and there just aren't enough good smutty fics out there for my boy, so I had to write one. Third, this takes place in an AU that is almost indistinguishable from the cannon universe but for the fact that Maul owns a tooth brush, because damn that mouth ain't right.]

Part 1

"Well... We are talking about sex, aren't we?"

You sit there, frozen as if he's pulled a blaster on you. In some ways, it would be simpler if he had—at least then you would know for sure whether your heart was punching up your throat out of fear or expectant thrill.

But things couldn't be so simple, and he's still seated next to you, leaned back in his chair. He's let slip a tiny curl of a smile, pleased with himself to catch you off guard. He sure picked his opening perfectly. You really thought you were going to have more time to bat your options back and forth.

Two hours ago...

You're tucked into a tiny sliver of wall on a stiff wooden chair, which is grinding your spine into a barb-wire coil. It's still afternoon and the only light apart from the primary array over the bar is the glaring white sunlight edging through the small, deep windows. It leaves the sandstone walls and ceiling in cool shadow. There's a glass of murky something on the stamp-size table in front of you, and your dusty travelling pack is huddled against your feet. You have the strap hooked around your ankle. This cantina has the look of a place where lots of things go missing.

The atmosphere is a bit tense, a bit hushed. You're looking at the hooded stranger at the bar—stars, everyone is looking at the hooded stranger at the bar. His black cloak can only hide so much, and from your spot on the wall you saw his face clearly when he walked in and took a seat.

The Ithorian barkeep passes him a clay tankard. He reaches up for his hood, and there's a shared intake of breath across the room—yourself included—as he pulls it down to his shoulders to reveal a tattooed, horned skull.

Everyone in the dim-lit cantina hastily busies themselves in their own drinks and card games, diving back into conversation and making a point to appear occupied.

You have no one to talk to, but your eyes study the water rings left on the dusty tabletop as you rotate your untouched glass back and forth. You catch yourself looking up at him, then wrestle your gaze away. You've travelled a bit with the University, but you've never seen a Zabrak up close. The ones who leave Dathomir tend to work as laborers...or as criminals.

The Zabrak males you've seen working in docks and shipyards or hanging about in the shady, seedy ends of spaceport towns all have a similar look: angry and harried, like many underprivileged species in the Republic. And even though they all have a smattering of cranial horns, you've only ever seen Zabrak skin in yellow-greens and earth-oranges.

This one is no dock worker or even a smuggler; all the low-lifes in this cantina know hired muscle when they see it, and you do too. Dressed in head-to-toe black, his cloak, his tunic, even his boots are too clean and too nice for grunt work. Cartel muscle, maybe.

And his skin under the black tattoos is screaming red; you didn't know Zabrak could be that red—not orange, not brown. Red.

You look up again, and terror zips through every nerve. He's looking right back, and you find yourself staring into baleful yellow eyes

You snap your attention back to your glass. Everything about him is alarming. But somehow the yellow of his irises only makes him seem more dangerous still—like a loth-wolf or some other predator.

Out of your periphery, you see that he's turned away to the bar again. Your chest unlocks and the breath you were holding wheezes out.

And then, your stubborn eyes carry themselves right back over to him, just asking for trouble. The silty water in your glass just isn't as interesting.

Cut it out. You're on your own here for several more days until the rest of the expedition arrives from the Core. Excited to begin and much closer—already being in the Anakis system—you rushed here to Tatooine as soon as your professor's holocomm disconnected. Study the ruins? Excavation in Tatooine's Dune Sea? You've been waiting for this kind of field work since you were a freshman. Starting a site from the ground up. First boots on the sand.

If you get murdered in a cantina by a Hutt mercenary (or worse, another syndicate elbowing into Hutt territory), it's really going to put the wet towel on your archeological career.

You look up. Again, his eyes are fixed on yours.

Dammit. But...I wonder if he's spent much time with the Nightsisters. Curiosity is poking around the edges of your anxiety. Dathomir was a staunchly matriarchal world; the females ruled from hidden cave cities, where they performed Force magick and trained to be fearsome warriors. The clan Nightbrothers were exiled to live in surface villages. He probably hadn't seen much of the infamous Dathomir witches.

Rumor has it that the Nightsisters have little contact with the men of their planet. When they needed one, the Sister in question would simply go to their village and select one that met her requirements...

Your throat feels a little dry, but not quite dry enough to take a sip from the only-somewhat-clear water in your glass. Mindlessly, you look up again. This time, he's turned in his chair, watching you from across the cantina floor.

Dammit.

The table is much too small to climb under, even if you could afford to show so much cowardice to a crowd like this. At least it's become much easier to keep your eyes on the tabletop.

At the blurry edge of your vision, you see him stand up from the bar. Uh-oh.

He's leaving. He's leaving. Please be leaving.

He's moving towards your table. Definitely not leaving. Anxiety is bunching into something more solid in the pit of your stomach. Here you are, alone in the least-dangerous cantina in Mos Eisley, with no one to help if there's trouble. If you were a little bolder, you could just look him in the eye and...and... The thought of looking in those yellow wolf eyes and telling him to get lost seems impossible.

Across the table, your field of vision is blocked by black—black cloak, black pants, black tunic belted by a wide black belt buckled in silver. Black gloves, even. He stops so close, you can smell the exhaust on his clothes; he must ride a speederbike, or some other open vehicle.

"Excuse me."

Well, it wasn't a war cry. Stop being such a child. You creak your neck upwards until finally, at the top of all the monochrome black, his red and tattooed face comes into sight.

If anything, he looks puzzled.

Say something! Say something!

"Hello." Not that.

"Hello," he repeats back at you with a frown. He folds his hands behind his back; the motion has the well-worn smoothness of habit. "I noticed you watching me from the bar. Who are you?"

In a heartbeat, you feel your fear twist into embarrassment. You stammer your name, then, "I'm a researcher with the Lina Soh University of Coruscant—here for-for the ruins, out in the Dune Sea. To study them. I'm so sorry—I don't—usually stare like that, it was very rude, I didn't mean to offend you..."

His yellow eyes have been moving between your face, your untouched water, your tunic—with the University signet and the crest of the Galactic Histories department stitched on the breast—to your travel pack tucked between your feet. The confusion is gone; now he looks...amused.

"Of course you are. I apologize for the intrusion. I thought you were someone else."

"No problem," you answer quickly. As soon as it started, the conversation is over. He turns away, presumably to return to his place at the bar. You should feel relief; oddly, you're a little disappointed to see him go.

Maybe he heard your thoughts, because he pauses and looks back. His yellow eyes meet yours, then land on the glass sweating moisture in a puddle on the grimy tabletop. His mouth twists in distaste.

"You weren't going to drink that, were you?"

You sigh and shake your head. "I don't think I can bring myself to."

"Good. Unless you're more Yinchorri than you look, it'll probably slough off half your stomach lining. They have their own bootleg water harvester in the back; I doubt it meets guild standard."

Humor, even desert-dry humor, was not what you were expecting. It's welcome, and your shoulders uncoil a notch. "Well, I have to say I'm rather attached to my stomach lining. I'm not prepared to give it up, just yet."

He gives you a nod and a lip-twitch of a smile, then he's moving back to his seat across the cantina. You look down at the miniature table practically sitting on your knees and shrug. What the hell.

"Hey, bartender." You're up at the bar, dropping your pack back between your feet. You wave at the Ithorian and push the still-full water glass in his direction. "What have you got without alcohol?"

There were other openings at the worn old bartop, other places you could have elbowed in. But you take one of the wide-open seats next to the Zabrak, and he doesn't object. At your question, the barkeep gestures irritably. Even through the voice modulator it has a greasy sneer.

"Ya lookin' for a bar or a lemonade stand? Whaddya doin' here if ya ain't lookin' to drink?"

"This doesn't have much alcohol in it." Your new friend lifts his tankard with one hand, leaning his chin on his other fist and his elbow on the counter. "Even a human metabolism shouldn't find it too strong."

"I'll have whatever he's having."

The Ithorian swipes your water glass and plunks away, muttering through the voicebox around his throat. You watch him lift the cap of the water jug, pour the contents back in, and put the glass straight back on the shelf with a mix-matched collection of dubiously clean tankards and mugs. Next to you, the Zabrak doesn't comment, but you see his mouth flatten in a grimace. He eyes his own tankard doubtfully, but takes another drink anyway.

"Here I thought heavy metal was the worst thing I could end up drinking," you murmur.

The bartender brings you a mug of something caramel-brown and cold. You take a small sip; just under your nose, it has a sharp spicy smell. It almost tastes like tea, mellow and woodsy with only a hint of alcohol.

"What is this?" You mutter to your neighbor.

"No idea." He takes another sip from his own tankard. "I asked for something without alcohol, and this is what he brought."

You think about that. You've never heard of syndicate or cartel muscle that didn't drink. Much more common to hear of ones that didn't breathe (at least not anymore) but as long as they were still kicking, thugs and booze went hand in hand.

He doesn't seem to mind your company, in any case. "Travelling alone?"

Should you lie? Maybe. You think of him coming across the floor at you, stopping over your table like a storm cloud... "I'm here with my colleagues." Half a lie. "I'm just waiting for them to catch up."

He nods. "You don't look like the sort of woman who would be travelling alone in the Outer Rim for pleasure."

Your skin prickles a little at the way he says that word. Pleasure. But he seems to be examining the collection of bottles against the wall, and you brush it off. "Definitely not."

"You're not going to wrap your bag's strap around your ankle again?" If you didn't already have a taste of his dry humor, you would have missed his smirk. You snort, even as your foot curls protectively around your pack.

"I figure no one's likely to come close enough to you to steal my bag."

He doesn't answer that, but he's hiding a smile behind his tankard as he goes for another gulp. "I would think a single scholar like yourself would prefer to stay in the privacy of her room while she waited for her party."

You shrug. "To be honest, I'm waiting for a room to open upstairs. The Weequay in the front said she was waiting on last night's tenant to get out, and once it's open I can move in."

"Ah, I see."

You realize that he slyly gave you the opportunity to deny being single, which you of course didn't notice—being that you are. You take another cautious sip, rolling it across your tongue. There is alcohol there, you're sure, but it's almost a suggestion rather than a fact. Your friend notices.

"You're wise to be cautious."

You smile wryly. "I'm alive because I'm cautious. It isn't my first trip to the Outer Rim."

He gives a single chuckle. "And yet, here you are. Chatting with the low-life that all the other low-lifes are frightened of. Strange choice."

You shrug again. "The other low-lifes make their living by robbing people like me. You look like you make a living on bigger fish. I don't think the sum total of everything I possess on my person is worth your trouble."

He nods, seeing your logic. "So by making friends with the scariest person in the room, you can avoid having to deal with the variety of small fish." He doesn't laugh, but you can hear it in his voice—he likes the way you think.

The two of you sit in pleasant silence for a time, while the clinks and mutterings of the cantina fill in the space. You can still detect a hint of the exhaust smell you picked up earlier, mixed with a bit of sweat and underneath it the familiar scent of male skin. You swipe at your nose briefly; you spent too much time smelling old jars and crumbling stone at your previous site trying to tell resin from rosemary. Your olfactory nerve is still pulling overtime.

"So," you start brightly, ignoring the impulse to lean closer. "You ever been to the Star Temples on Dathomir?"

The next two hours passed in conversation as the light from Tatooine's dual suns shifted from one flat horizon to the other. No one attempted to steal your bag, and in fact the other customers of the cantina appeared to relax, seeing the Zabrak's attention absorbed elsewhere.

"I can't believe it's true." You sit there, stunned, and shake your head. "I thought the gender separation was exaggerated."

"No, no. I wasn't raised in a Nightbrother village, but I assure you, it's very true. The other Dathomir witch clans are much different—the Nightsisters are the most—ah—sensational, so they receive the most attention from galactic rumor mills. But they really do keep a...population...of Zabrak males. They live rather primatively. No space-capable vehicles, little modern technology."

"They're captives there."

Your companion shrugs. "They don't know any better, and even if they did, most are too prideful to be candid. Some are removed as children. Others escape to other settlements on Dathomir or find passage offworld. But really, is it worse than other Outer Rim planets? Or the lower levels of Coruscant? There's a slave market right here in Mos Eisley—the Republic doesn't care."

You finish your third mug. You doubt you've drunk an entire shot's worth of alcohol and you don't feel its effects; maybe you'll notice when it's time to try and walk. "Slavery is bad enough, but...what you're describing...the men of those villages are just...” Breeding stock. "What kind of quality of life can they have?"

Can he read your mind? He pauses for a long time with a small smile on his lips while you wonder if you want to bring the subject of breeding into the conversation.

"It's even more hazardous than you think," he says at last. "Many die in the selection process alone." At your look of shock, he goes on, "I nearly forgot to bring that up. Yes, Nightsisters frequently hold a series of...trials, I suppose. Fights to the death are common, and other tests that are quite lethal if you fail."

"That's big risk to be...well, enslaved."

"From what I understand, some are simply required to participate. Others, I suppose, actually fight to be chosen."

You scoff. "Oh yes, I'm sure it's worth it."

"Perhaps it is. The alternative is living the rest of your life barely seeing a woman."

"I'm sure that's their biggest concern."

His smile is coy. "Well... We are talking about sex, aren't we?"

Your eyes cut to his before you can stop them, and you see in an instant that he's thinking exactly what you suspect. You realize that you have to decide much sooner than you expected where you want this encounter to go. He's turned in his chair to face you, and his knee is resting against your thigh. You can hardly think with him so close, so physically present. It has been some months since you were with a man, after all.

"The sex drive in most species is so strong," he continues. He doesn't try to touch you, beyond his knee resting against your leg. "It can seem like the most important thing in the galaxy, at times. Strong enough, even, to forget one's circumstances."

Before you can stop yourself, you roll your bottom lip under. His eyes haven't left yours for nearly a minute straight; he's waiting for an answer, but you're having trouble conjuring up anything witty. You're having trouble coming up with anything but monosyllables. He's such a smooth talker, and you aren't used to being tongue-tied like this.

"What's your name?" you ask finally.

"Maul."

You realize that you've been leaning just a little towards him. But then, he's done the same. Just a single degree, as if a spark of magnetic charge were tugging between the two of you.

"If this barroom has gotten too crowded," he begins slowly, "you could wait with me, in my room upstairs."

You feel your pulse break into a sweating trot. All at once, half of your brain shouts enthusiastic agreement... while the other half remembers a bizarre story from a college acquaintance that Zabrak have barbed phalluses. That can't be true. If it is, you have an awkward conversation waiting upstairs in his room.

You almost lose rein of a hysterical giggle at the thought. If you were having trouble gathering up the words before, now it's nearly impossible. So you give up on eloquence and instead drop your hand to rest on his thigh—just near the knee, not too obscene for out in public. He's corded muscle under your hand; you can feel his quadriceps tense at your touch. You had his undivided attention before. Now he's staring at you like the rest of the cantina, the rest of Tatooine and the Outer Rim as a whole, have disappeared.

"Let me leave a message up at the front," you purr with a smile. "In case my group gets here as asks for me."

Maul nods and returns the smile. "I'll wait upstairs for you. Room 6."

You squeeze the muscles of his thigh, then swing off the barstool to your feet. As you feared, you find yourself a bit lightheaded, but it's not the stingy alcohol content. You leave a few credits next to your empty mug and pick up your travel pack.

"See you upstairs," you tell him. He doesn't answer; the look he gives you is answer enough. His stare is like electricity down your back as you leave the barroom and approach the counter where the Weequay is now dozing.

"Excuse me?"

Behind the counter, the Weequay hostess jumps and nearly tumbles to the floor. "What—oh, yes, what? What do you need?" She lurches to her feet, blinking sleep out of her eyes.

"Can I leave a message up here? I'm expecting to meet up with other University researchers. They may ask for me if they can't find me." If I've been murdered or kidnapped by some stranger in a Mos Eisley cantina, you add to yourself. It wasn't realistic to dismiss the possibility off hand, and you wanted him to know that someone would come looking for you. But at the thought of following Maul up to his private room, you’re not feeling your usual suspicious self. He was dangerous—anyone with eyeballs could see that—but as before with the barroom thieves, you feel that you are outside the range of people who had to worry.

Besides. What was the point of keeping yourself in one piece with caution and prudence if it robbed you of adventure?

“You were waitin’ on the room, right?”

“Oh—yes, is it ready?”

In answer, the hostess hands you a key disc with a ‘4’ scratched into the metal. She waves you in the direction of the upper floor.

You record the message for Professor Taq Norr, and leave it in the Weequay hostess' care. The stairs are around the corner; you hope Maul is already there. Time to go find out how accurate the rumor mill is.

#star wars #phantom menace #episode 1 #darth maul #maul #maul opress #self insert #ekrochford #smut #writing #fanfiction #fem reader #sith #dathomir #tattooine #maul x reader

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ekrochford · 1 month ago

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Maul x femreader NSFW self-insert fanfic (part 4/10)

[More horny Sith daddy? Yes, I think so.]

Part 4

Whether a threat or a promise, Maul meant what he said.

You feel like you’ve only dozed off when you feel his fingers between your legs again. His breath is hot on your neck, and you can feel he’s hard as driftwood already. Your eyes blink open to find it’s still lamplit darkness in his room.

“I let you sleep an hour,” he growls against your throat. As if that explains all. His lips press against your skin so hard you can feel the teeth behind them.

Testing, he plunges two fingers inside you. You gasp in surprise at the flutter that rolls through your body. It doesn’t hurt; you’re already wet again (or maybe just still wet), if a little sore.

His other hand tugs your hair back until your throat is vulnerable, exposed for him to kiss every pulsing inch. He hasn’t pulled too hard, pressed too hard, or even scraped your neck with his teeth too hard yet; even so, you can feel the tension in Maul—he’s holding back. To avoid hurting you? To avoid scaring you?

You’re tired, but not tired enough. You nod your head against his grip on your hair. “I’m ready for more.” Foggy with sleep, you search around for the right piece of the game to play. What’s the right line to electrify things for both of you… “I’ll behave. I’m a good girl.”

You feel a shiver through Maul’s whole body. He stares into your face, as if trying to catch you in a lie. You look back at him innocently—you can’t help a small smile, conspiratorial and anticipatory.

He chuckles. “Oh, if you’re going to talk like that, I can’t be held responsible for the consequences.”

Before you can ask, he rolls over you and his weight is pressed between your legs. There isn’t even time for more banter; Maul slides his shaft into place and he’s got you so wet already that he’s buried inside you in a flash. You shout—can’t stop yourself, it feels like an ember exploding into a flare—but Maul only pulls out to thrust in again.

He catches your legs. You think he’s going to separate them and spread your thighs wider but instead he wraps a thick arm around them both so that they’re hugged flat to his chest, your ankles crossed over one shoulder.

And then he starts in for real, and you have to find something to hold onto. Shouting? Now you’re begging, moaning his name and a stream of pleas as he folds you almost in half and ruts away. He’s too big from this position, but the small sting of pain recedes as you get looser and wetter—you’re already climaxing, and you don’t stop because he doesn’t stop.

“Tell me—how much—you like it—” Maul pants without slowing.

“I—I—stars—it’s so—g-good—”

“Do you—want—more?”

More? Something like a whine escapes you, but you answer, “Y-yes—please—”

“What—about my cum? Do you want it—inside you?”

“Please—I want you—to cum—whatever—it takes—” You’re not sure what is going to give out first, your heart or the bedframe. This man is gonna kill me… “Tell me—what you—want—I want to—be your g-good girl—”

His eyes are bright yellow in the dark. “I—I want to—cover you—with my cum—I want to—”

“Yes—do it.” You don’t want to tap out—you want him to orgasm as hard as he’s done to you. You’ve never been fucked by someone who made you crave kink, and you don’t plan to waste the opportunity. “Cum—all over me—”

With a growl—nearly painful—Maul pulls out and while he doesn’t completely cover you, his cum squirts across your hips, your abdomen, all the way up to your breasts. His entire body jerks, convulses, and his face twists in release.

One hand squeezes the last of it off his cock, and then he sags to the mattress beside you. His eyes drift closed, but he wrenches them back open.

“Here… let me… get…” Maul heaves his legs over the side of the bed; he sits there, back to you, sweat gleaming in the yellow light of the lamp. You’re still lying there with his cum dripping down your body, so it’s a relief when he levers himself to his feet and retrieves a washcloth from the basin by the window.

When he turns back, you see the look on his face when he takes in the sight of you, still dripping.

He hands you the washcloth. “You’d better… If I look…”

But you’ve looked down and already seen what happens. You hadn’t imagined that you were such a sizzling hot sight, not at the moment—but Maul’s erection is already erecting all over again, swelling back into top form.

“Oh.”

You wipe off quickly. Your soul might just vacate permanently if Maul has another go at you again just now.

---

The third time is entirely your doing.

You fell asleep. Deep and dreamless, this time, but something out of place nagged you back into consciousness.

That something, of course, was Maul. The heat and weight of him next to you, lying on his back. You aren’t even sure if he’s asleep; he doesn’t snore, doesn’t move, and you can barely tell he’s breathing. In the gray and stony light before dawn, it’s hard to tell.

A strange little warning bell sings at the back of your mind. Yes, if he wanted Maul could probably kick your door down. But just sleeping here with a strange man in his room—as if this galaxy weren’t full of dangers and as if the Outer Rim weren’t the repository of all the dangers that the Republic pressed out of the Core and the Middle…

While your head is clear, you decide that you mustn’t repeat the mistake. It’s not like you. This is the sort of behavior that leads to women disappearing without a whisper.

“Worrying so early?”

So he’s not asleep. “Or so late. What time do you think it is?”

“My chrono is across the room, but by the light I would guess 0400. Tatooine days are quite long.”

You sit up. Other men would be offended at your thoughts, but you already know Maul would agree. “I didn’t mean to sleep over.”

“Well, I suppose technically we’ve done very little sleeping.”

You giggle in agreement. Pre-dawn twilight here in the desert is dragging slow, and the burning red of Maul’s skin looks muted to brown. Somehow his eyes are still gold, and it would take a lot more shadow to blur the points of horns across his skull.

And the point of one other thing. He’s hard again.

You look at the bulge under the sheet, then back up at him. You raise an eyebrow. Just the corner of his lips twist upward.

“You should go back to your room. Get some rest.”

Yes, you should. But in the short time between deciding to be more cautious and seeing Maul ready to go yet again, your priorities have shifted.

“But what if I don’t want to rest?” you ask.

“Oh? What do you want to do?” His grin has spilt to show teeth.

You turn to face him; you were holding the sheet over your breasts, but now you let it drop and slowly, slowly begin to drag it down Maul’s chest, waist, until he’s completely uncovered.

You move to kneel between his legs. He chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Careful. I would have thought you’d had enough.”

“I’ve had enough,” you circle the base of his shaft and squeeze gently, “when you say I’ve had enough.”

You release and squeeze again; Maul’s eyes glaze and wander upward, just for a moment.

“What did I tell you about talking that way?”

He certainly doesn’t sound upset about it. You stroke up and down—lightly—just getting warmed up. “Let’s see… I don’t know if I can remember what you said.” Your movements are a little bigger, stroking up every inch of him without gaining speed. “I’m so sorry, sir. You’ll have to tell me again.”

“You are a fast learner, aren’t you?” he mutters. Louder, “I don’t like having to repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I’ll make sure of it. I told you that if you talk that way to me, there will be consequences.”

A shiver, this time of anticipation, shoots up your spine. You put on a worried face at the same time your other hand starts massaging his sack, gentle over-the skin circles with your thumb. “What kind of consequences?”

Maul curls both of his arms up to bury his fists in the pillow. “There’s no need to ruin the—the surprise.”

Your hands slow to crawl, the one drawing up his shaft almost dragging to a stop. “I’ll only worry if I don’t know. What’s going to happen. What could happen, I mean. What kind of consequences.”

You see Maul’s hands flex and his chest rise and fall with a long exhale. “The kind that I bend you over for.”

You feel like all the blood in your veins is pooling in a hot pulse between your legs. Having heard it, the thought of Maul bending you over is branded into your imagination. “Goodness.” It’s all you can come up with. Your words keep bottle-necking while you try to think of something frisky to wind him up more.

Annoyed at your own tongue-tie, you put on an innocent voice and ask, “Are you going to do it to my back, too?”

Maul looks at you, confused. “Do what?”

You bite your lip, as if worried. “What you did earlier to my front… Are you going to cum all over me again?”

His cock in your hand actually twitches. Maul’s stare has started to blaze with lust.

You keep it up. “I’ll do everything you say, of course… but it was so much… such a mess…”

“Not this time,” he rasps. “This time, I’m going to fuck all the way down your throat, and you’re going to swallow all my cum. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, get down on your elbows and open your mouth.”

You do eagerly, and Maul sits up enough to grasp your hair in one hand. He guides his cock, now nearly throbbing, into your mouth as far as it will go. You struggle to relax your throat from this angle; Maul seems to notice because even as he plunges himself up between your lips he doesn’t hit the back of your throat again.

“This is how I want to see you,” he growls. “On your knees, ass up, taking my cock.”

Well, when he put it like that… You’ve never been so aroused by giving oral sex. You moan agreement around his shaft. Still holding you by the hair, Maul pulls his cock out.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.” His tone is tight with restraint, the growl reined in. Almost cordial.

“Yes, sir… Anything… you want…”

“Ask for it back.”

Stars, that’s almost too kinky. “Could I have more of your cock? Please?”

“Of course. You can have all of it.”

He slides it back in, and you can feel how close he is—his cock on your tongue is tight and nearly quivering. You dip forward, trying to get his head at the top of your throat, and not a second too soon. Maul comes hard, hips jerking up, with a guttural shout.

“Sorry for the brevity,” he murmurs. “That was… you seem to have a way with words.”

You sit up with a snort. You have a way with words? Has he ever listened to himself? “You’re not bad, either.”

Maul chuckles. So he does know. With a happy groan, he sits up and scoots back until he’s sitting against the wall at the head of the bed. He pats his thighs. “Come here.”

“Already?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t need something,” he growls, grinning. “Come here.”

“Hmm, yes sir.” You climb over the mattress and start to straddle his hips. Maul shakes his head, smiling.

“No. Over my knees.”

“What… you mean…”

“Hmm-hmm. I do mean.”

You hesitate. You’ve never had a man spank you before. You’ve never trusted one enough—neither for you to be so vulnerable nor for him to know what the fuck he was doing.

Of course Maul sees you pause, sees the thoughts on your face. And of course he’s got an answer already. “Unless you think that’s too harsh. I suppose… there are plenty of other things we could do. I’ll have you begging one way or another.”

Relieved, you’re about to agree that you want to do something else. But then… you try to decide what you want him to do, and to your surprise, the thought of Maul spanking you keeps pushing itself to the forefront.

“I… yes. Actually. Yes.” You can’t believe you’re doing this—of all the things to surprise yourself—but you turn yourself around to settle your weight over Maul’s thighs. “Yes, actually—I think I deserve t-to be spa—spanked.”

“How daring.”

Just the position is making your heart race; you jump when Maul runs his fingertips up your thigh. His other hand finds its way to your hair and gently pulls your head back. You can feel his palm flat on your buttocks.

“I have to agree,” he murmurs. “Even good girls sometimes need an attitude adjustment.”

He spanks you once, and although it’s startling, it barely hurts at all. He’s really holding back. The blood pumping between your legs is a much more powerful sensation.

“I certainly do,” your voice, with your head pulled back, comes out breathy.

He spanks you a second time, a little harder. You gasp out of reflex.

“Too hard?” Maul asks lightly. Instead of another one, his fingers slip between your legs. You hiss in a breath between your teeth as he strokes deep inside you. “No, I don’t think it was. You’re so wet, I don’t think it’s nearly enough.”

He works his fingers up to your clit until you feel a climax starting—then he pulls his hand away.

“Not just yet,” he teases, and spanks you again. His palm circles gently over the spot, teasing again. “Shall we say… two, then I use my fingers? One more?”

“Yes, please.”

“Please…?”

Stars, this man… “Please, can I have another?”

Maul pulls his hand away, leaving you waiting in suspense—but not for very long. It’s only a little harder than the others, but you’re not so anxious over it, now, and after the tantalizing spike of pain Maul’s fingers are back between your legs. He’s pushing you towards orgasm, but you know he could do it all at once if he wanted. He’s making you wait. Making a game of it.

“How many… until… I can come?”

“I think just two more… Do you want them now?”

“Fuck—yes, now, please…”

“Is that how you ask?”

You let out a whimper; you just need his fingers a little deeper, a little faster… “Please, sir, can I h-have another sp-spanking?”

Maul doesn’t answer—just pulls his hand away and gives you a solid smack.

“Another one—please—”

There’s the clean slap of flesh on flesh before the pain hits, but you don’t have time to think about it. Maul’s already fingering you again, without restraint this time, and you’re in the middle of an orgasm in seconds. He’s still got your hair in one hand, tugging your head back; your hands are clawed into the mattress, desperate for something to hold you down out of orbit. Maul has to be able to feel the contracting of your muscles around his fingers, but he keeps on anyway, mercilessly.

When you’re shaking and nearly sobbing with release, Maul removes his fingers, removes his hand from your hair, and finally removes you from his lap to lie on the mattress next to him. You curl on your side, still trembling and weak, wrung out like a sponge.

Maul looks at you for a long time and sighs.

“You’d really better go get some rest, this time.”

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#ekrochford #star wars #self insert #smut #fanfiction #fem reader #maul #darth maul #maul opress #lord maul #tattooine #cantina

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