<<<
<<<
<<<
<<<
Below given chapter is ch 23 of the continuity, removed from the archives (aka main continuity) because of how many people had issues with the sensualness that involved an mentally 27 and physcially 8 year old boy and 27 year old girl. The original chapter has been replaced with an fade to black one.
So don't spoil yourself of the story by reading this if you haven't read previous chapters.
____
[Ezra's POV]
The moment she turned, presenting her back fully, I realized I was in way over my head. The towel clung precariously to her hips as she leaned forward, water streaming down her spine like some kind of slow-motion holodrama. I grabbed the soap like it was a thermal detonator about to explode, lathered up, and got to work—because what else was I supposed to do? Panic? Absolutely. But also massage.
Her skin was warm, slick from the water, and tense with knots from hauling scrap all day. I focused on kneading the muscles between her shoulder blades like my life depended on it, which, given the circumstances, it kind of did. She let out a sigh that sounded way too pleased for my sanity, and I immediately regretted every decision that led me here.
Things got worse when she shifted, leaning forward even more. The towel slipped a fraction, revealing a tiny dimple at the base of her spine—something I definitely did not need to know existed. My brain, being the traitor it was, immediately supplied an unhelpful thought about grip handles before I shut it down like a faulty power converter.
Then came the real disaster. I suggested washing her sides, because apparently, I was a masochist. She lifted her arms, stretching in a way that made her—nope, not thinking about it—and my soapy hands slid around her ribs. That's when it happened. My thumb, slick and rogue, brushed the outer curve of her breast.
The universe stopped. My soul left my body. I yanked my hands back like I'd touched a live wire, nearly slipping on the wet tiles in my haste to retreat. There was no hiding the situation downstairs now, and the steam did nothing to disguise my full-body panic.
Somehow, she was completely oblivious. She just reached for the shampoo and asked if I was going to help with her lekku.
Oh, we're still doing this?!
I swallowed hard, caught between horror and the crushing realization that I had somehow signed up for more of this torture. But pride (or maybe sheer stupidity) made me double down.
"I can do better than just wash them," I said, catching the shampoo bottle like it was my last lifeline.
Vasha just snorted and turned, presenting her back again like she hadn't just unwittingly sent me into a full-blown existential crisis.
And that's how I ended up massaging her lekku while desperately trying not to think about the fact that my life was now a cautionary tale about hubris.
Massaging her lekku was somehow worse. The second my hands touched those head-tails, Vasha melted like overheated plastoid. She made this noise—a deep, rumbling groan that sounded like a Wookiee sitting on a tooka—and declared we should ditch the repair shop to open a massage parlor with me as the "star attraction." My ego did a backflip while the rest of me cringed. Great. Just what my resume needs: "Seven-year-old Twi'lek tension specialist."
Then came the fatal mistake. Blinded by misplaced confidence (or maybe steam inhalation), I offered to wash her front. She agreed instantly, turning to lean back against the tiles like a Hutt settling onto a throne. Arms crossed underneath—nope, not looking down—but it pushed everything up. Water cascaded into the canyon between her chest like a miniature waterfall feature. My mouth went Sahara-dry.
At that point, I realized I had made a critical error in judgment. The collarbones were fine—safe, non-threatening, the diplomatic neutral zone of personal hygiene. But then my traitorous hands decided to go rogue, drifting downward like malfunctioning servo-motors with a death wish.
Just the upper slopes, I told myself. Like washing a particularly large, warm speeder hood. Nothing weird about it. Except speeder hoods didn't jiggle when you pressed too hard. Or make Vasha sigh like I'd just fixed her hyperdrive with a toothpick.
Then came the underside maneuver—a tactical error of galactic proportions. My fingers, slick with soap and bad decisions, slid beneath the curves like a smuggler probing for hidden compartments. I told myself it was deep-tissue cleaning—purely medicinal, like degreasing a seized actuator. But no amount of mental gymnastics could explain why I was kneading with such enthusiasm.
Vasha made a noise—something between a purr and a sleepy rancor—and my brain short-circuited. Oh kriff. That's not a "you missed a spot" noise. That's a "why does this feel good?" noise.
Panic set in. My thumbs, in their infinite wisdom, decided now was the perfect time to "accidentally" graze a sensitive spot. Vasha twitched like I'd tasered her, her lekku doing a full-body flinch. ABORT. ABORT. I yanked my hands back like I'd just touched a live power conduit, my face burning hotter than a Tatooine twin sun.
"Tickles," she muttered, voice strained. Yeah. Sure. "Tickles." That was the understatement of the millennium.
I switched to Operation: Distraction, zeroing in on her belly button like it held the secrets of the universe. Scrub the navel. Ignore everything else. Pretend you're an archaeologist excavating a very small, very damp ruin. But the Force had other plans.
The towel—my last line of defense—chose that exact moment to surrender. It slid off her hips with a wet plop, hitting the floor like a white flag. My brain bluescreened. NUDITY CRITICAL FAILURE. REBOOT IMPOSSIBLE.
Vasha, meanwhile, just sighed, picked it up, and draped it over her lap like this was completely normal. Oh, sure. No big deal. Just a naked Twi'lek chilling in a 'fresher with a hyperventilating child. Totally fine.
Just when I thought the torture was over, Vasha—now fully convinced I was some kind of seven-year-old massage prodigy—dropped the thermal detonator.
"Alright, kid. Legs next."
My soul briefly left my body. Legs. LEGS. The things attached to the… other things.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat. Wait, why would a normal kid refuse? "Sorry, Vasha, I only wash torsos?" That would raise more questions than answers. So, like a doomed protocol droid agreeing to clean a Sarlacc pit, I nodded.
"Uh… sure! Just… gotta get all the grime, right?" My voice cracked. Smooth, Ezra. Real smooth.
Vasha, blissfully unaware of my internal meltdown, stretched out her legs like a lazy loth-cat. Oh, great. Now I have to touch her thighs. The thick, muscular, very warm thighs that could probably crush durasteel. This is fine.
I grabbed the soap like it was my last lifeline and started scrubbing her calves with the intensity of a droid buffing its master's prized speeder. Safe. Neutral. Nothing weird about calves. Just… long, toned, slightly damp—STOP.
Then came the thighs.
I approached them like a bomb technician handling unstable explosives—slow, deliberate, no sudden movements. The second my fingers made contact, my brain short-circuited. Kriff, they're soft. And firm. And—why is this so complicated?!
Vasha let out a pleased hum, completely relaxed. "Damn, kid. You've got a real talent for this."
Talent. Right. Because what every child dreams of is becoming a prepubescent Twi'lek masseuse.
I was so busy having a mental crisis that I didn't notice my hands drifting dangerously inward—until my pinky brushed something much softer than thigh muscle.
___
The moment my fingers brushed that particular patch of sensitive skin, I realized I had crossed a line even a blind Gungan could see. Vasha froze like I'd just activated her kill-switch, and for one horrifying second, I was certain my cover was blown. Game over. She knows. She definitely knows.
But desperation makes for excellent improv. I forced my hands to keep moving—just an inch outward, like nothing had happened—and cranked up the "clueless kid" act to maximum. "Did I poke you? Your legs are like durasteel cables!" I chirped, sounding approximately 200% more innocent than I felt.
Vasha recovered faster than I expected, though the way her shoulders locked betrayed the effort. "Just ticklish," she muttered, comparing her inner thigh to an elbow of all things. Sure, Vas. And Tatooine is a ski resort. But I wasn't about to argue. If she wanted to pretend this was normal, I'd play along like my life depended on it—because honestly, it kinda did.
I babbled something about pruny fingers and cold water, waving my hands like a malfunctioning droid. Vasha's gaze flickered over me, a mix of relief and lingering suspicion, before she practically leaped out of the shower. For someone who'd been lounging around naked without a care, she suddenly moved like a cadet in inspection line—grabbing a towel with military precision and wrapping it around herself in record time.
"Enough spa day," she announced, her voice strained but firm. The hair ruffle she gave me was more reflexive than affectionate, her fingers lingering just a second too long. "You did good." The praise should've felt like a win, but the undercurrent of tension made it clear: this wasn't just about sore muscles anymore.
Then came the kicker. As she strode toward the door, still gloriously nude, she tossed over her shoulder, "Your turn, kid. Wash every part of yourself with at least half the enthusiasm you did with mine"
And that's when my traitorous body betrayed me. A tiny, choked noise escaped my throat—something between a squeak and a wheeze—as my brain short-circuited at the sight of her retreating backside. Damn those cheeks. Damn them to Mustafar.
Vasha either didn't hear or chose to ignore it. But as the fresher door hissed shut behind her, one thing was painfully clear: I'd survived the encounter, but the war was far from over.
And worse? She'd probably want a repeat performance. Hell nah, Interstellar FBI might just end up arresting Vasha, and I loved her just too much to subject her to such legalities.
So I did the only sensible thing and turned the water to cold. Freezing cold.
Let the rising peanut shrivel into oblivion....
-----
The original version of the chapters with all the sensualness and shit is on Patreon if someone wants to get hot and bothered. (Chapter 22, 23 summing together to 7.1k words)
For comparison, the current 22+23 is around 3.5k words..... I had to cut out sooo much content lol
If you want to support me or read advanced chapters, you can do so at Patreon. I would be highly appreciative of that and it would support me very much in my writing endeavors.
Link: www(dot)patreon(dot)com/Abstracto101