Heater smiled to himself as he looked at the new pilot.  Not a beauty,
no.  This boy was far too gawky, his ears jutting out from his slowly
vanishing Imperial regulation cut.  He wore a sullen, hurt look that had
not yet turned into bitter cynicism.  It would.  Oh, it certainly would,
and just a little help from old Heater would nudge it that way.

In ten years, the boy would be strong, handsome and no longer hungry for work.
Right now he was homeless, shipless, and even nameless, his former identity a
source of shame.  And he was very literally hungry.  Heater knew he hadn't eaten
in two days.  Just the way Heater liked them.  Desperate men would go to great
lengths to gain his favor and the status that working for Jabba could give them..

“So, tell me, my boy,”--how he bristled at that!-- “tell me why I
should introduce you to Jabba.  Tell me why I should let you fly one of my
ships.” He’d already decided to hire the young man, but watching them squirm
was so amusing.

“I’m the best.”

Ego, pride and arrogance, all packaged in three words.  This was going
to be fun.

“You know it.  The test run you just rode herd on me for showed you
that.”

“It showed me you are careless, incautious and death-wishing, boy.
Your court-martial has made you reckless.”  This time there was an actual
twitch near his eye.  Ah, still responsive to needling on his recently
destroyed career.  “Your piloting was sloppy, your lift needlessly showy and your
jump calculations were dubious in the extreme.”

The boy looked about to say something but he held his tongue.  He
flushed a dangerous shade of brick red.

“I really, in good conscience, cannot recommend you to Jabba.”  Heater
rose, turned his back and poured a drink.  He didn’t offer any to the pilot,
although he knew that alcohol was almost as necessary as food to the young
man.  “If the Imperials don’t get you on the first run, then you’ll flaunt your
disloyalty like the turncoat you are and sell Jabba out.”  He feigned a
yawn as he closed and stroked the man’s face.  The flinch was delightful..
“It would be so tiresome to have to send bounty hunters out to carry out
vendetta.  And I understand you Corellians do it so very messily.”
Heater made a moue of disgust as he continued.  He circled the pilot and came
up behind him.

“I hear your people use a tiny knife, and drive it in here.” He
illustrated with a jab to the solar plexus.  “Then unzip the guts.” He slid his
hand down the heaving belly.  “Castrate the luckless man.” He stroked the
shrunken genitals that withdrew even further under his hand.  “Shove
his equipment into his throat.”  Questing fingers pried open the clenched
lips. “And hang him in his own intestines as a warning.”  The long hand
closed around a very tense throat.

“I would have all that done, here, in this room,” Heater whispered in
his ear, feeling the trembling that the man dared not show.  “I would watch
each step.  And as you choke on your own cock, dancing on thin air, I will
take you.”  He thrust hard against the firm, flat buttocks.

That did it.  Heedless of everything except his humiliation, the young
man rounded on his tormentor and swung at him.

Heater, for all his apparent decadence, was in fine shape.  He caught
the fist that was aimed at his jaw and twisted until the pilot was kneeling
before him.

“Now that, my boy, you will pay for.  Be creative, and I might just
recommend you anyway.”

A string of muttered insults in lowport Corelli barely reached Heater’s
ears as he stroked the pilot's face.  Yes, the boy would be very handsome, in time.
And Heater wanted a piece of him now, while he was helpless and vulnerable.

He’d decided to sponsor the boy from the moment the first light-jump
had been made, but it appealed to him to watch the pilot squirm.  He let go
and lounged back on the sofa, waiting.  The first move had to be his
victim’s.

More swearing.  The pilot got up to leave.  Heater stopped him with a
well-placed word.  “If you leave, you won’t work for Jabba.  You won’t
work for anyone.  You know far too much of the operations to be allowed to
live.”

A twisted smile crossed his face.  “And it won’t be any fast burn
either, dear boy.  You shall amuse me until I send you to amuse Jabba and his
court with your death.”  A hidden knife from the arm of the sofa appeared in
Heater’s hands.  “I am most inventive.”  He made it dance across his
fingers and twirled it.

“How creative?”  The anger, frustration and fear in the growled words
made Heater smile more.

“I liked you on your knees.”  It was the only clue that was necessary.

“Gonna make me beg?”

“As entertaining as that could be, no.  Dear boy, are you really this
dense?”

There was a long silence, and Heater watched the internal battle,
waiting.  He could be very patient when the situation demanded.  Finally, the
young man turned completely toward him.  His face was set and each step
toward Heater was an act of will.  He leaned over his tormentor, then dropped
to his knees in front of the sofa, his pride beaten into the ground by an
empty belly and empty wallet.  “I know what you want.  I just don’t know what
I’m doing.”  The words came hard, forced out, and lay defeated at Heater’s
feet.

“Do what you like the whores to do to you.”  The changeable hazel eyes
flashed pure grey anger at Heater, and he smiled.

“I’m nobody’s whore.”

“Don’t count on it.”  Heater tickled his chin with the point of the
knife, trailing it along his jaw, lifting his face with the point.  The pilot
hissed when he gouged a short cut just under the lips.  “Now, shall we
argue?  I’m beginning to think you really do have death-wish.”

A look of grim defiance on his bleeding face, the pilot opened Heater’s
robes, and rubbed him erect.  His touch was clumsy and inexperienced.
The resentment on his face made up for it.  The first touch of his mouth
hit Heater like a stun bolt.

The boy really didn’t know what he was doing, and it amused Hater to
point out just how badly he was performing.  The criticism only made him more
self-conscious.  But stimulation was stimulation.  And the hate in his
eyes paid for a great deal of clumsiness.

“Take it in and lick the bottom, my boy.”  He trailed the knife over
the pilot’s neck.  “If you bite me, I will cut your throat, just a nick
And I will use you as you bleed out.”

He obeyed, grey-green eyes staring anger and hate, and Heater relaxed into
it.  Yes, perfect.  This one would be fine entertainment for him and a
profitable pilot for Jabba.

Heater came, holding the man’s head between his legs until he finished.
There would be no withdrawal.  He knew he would be bitter, too much
spice and too much brandy, but that was deliberate too.  He pulled out,
closed up and stood.

“Very well.  Clumsy though that was, I’ll speak favorably to Jabba.”
Heater swept from the room.

The pilot spat, ridding himself of Heater’s slime, and swearing that no
one would ever put him in that position again.  He’d have a ship of his
own, get money, gain power and the legend he would make out of the
name of Han Solo would blot out the shame he’d endured.