Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tarkin’s quarters on the Star Destroyer lack the floor to ceiling window with an enviable view of the city that his apartment on Coruscant boasts, but that’s about the only expense spared. 

Tarkin’s unprecedented rapid rise through Imperial High Command has granted him a great deal of privilege. The carpets are heavy and soft, the individual cost of each piece of furniture rivalling entire rooms of the home he grew up in. There’s art on the wall, an original made by the sort of name that people recognise or at least know enough to pretend to recognise.  

It’s almost entirely for show. Tarkin has little interest in such shallow luxuries beyond the image they reinforce. His tastes are much more straightforward. 

IC-5052 stands to perfect attention, back as straight as anything else in the room. He isn’t wearing his helmet and the faint outline on his cheeks where he must once have had tattoos are the only mark on him. He’s as perfect as his shined armour. 

“At ease, Commander,” Tarkin says, and puts his datapad face down on his desk next to the model of Eriadu he keeps there, floating above its stand. He neatly folds his hands on the surface of the desk. 

52 slips out of his salute into an equally perfect parade rest. He doesn’t look any more relaxed for dropping the stiff position. Tarkin isn’t surprised; this is hardly the first time that 52 has been in his office, but it's the first time he’s been called up alone and unexpectedly like this. The clones whisper to each other about their kind disappearing as they outlive their usefulness. If that is 52's concern, he  has nothing to worry about. He’s dedicated and gets the sort of results that have his human peers seething with envy. 

Tarkin lets the silence stretch. He watches to see if 52 will fidget or break the silence but he is a remarkable example of Kaminoan engineering. His chest rises and falls, the only sign of life, but shows no signs of discomfort.

“Strip, would you, Commander.” 

There’s something to how the order has even the most disciplined face cracking. It’s why Tarkin has them remove their helmets first. 

“Sir?” 52 asks. They always ask, certain they must have misheard. 

“Strip off your armour and bodyglove and come stand in front of my desk,” Tarkin repeats. He doesn’t let his voice give anything away. 

52 only hesitates for a second longer before he stiffly begins to unshell. It’s a credit to him, some of the others are far less committed to following their orders. 

They all remove and stack their armour in the same way, maximum efficiency built into their very genes. 52 is no different, he starts with his hands and works inwards to his chest and then from his feet up to his waist. He pauses, as many of them do, meeting Tarkin’s eye, hands frozen above the seal of his bodyglove. Tarkin raises a questioning eyebrow and 52 breaks the seal. 

The illusion of perfection is dented as he bares his chest. He’s scared all over, some new, still red and angry, others so faded they must be almost as old as 52 is. Tarkin can’t say he minds, he selects clones for a reason, and it’s not just their obedience. Jango Fett was a handsome man, but the way military life clings to the clones adds to the appeal. They’re strong and fit and carry the evidence of their violent existence all over them. 

Tarkin removes one hand from his desk, flicking open his belt and button on his pants, easing the pressure on his cock.

52 hesitates again, but doesn’t look up. There’s a panic in his eyes even if the rest of his expression is perfectly smooth. He hooks his thumbs over the waistband of his underwear, pulling down with a slow deliberateness that could be passed off as a tease. Tarkin suspects 52 is still clinging to the childish notion that this might be a mistake, and if he waits, he will give Tarkin time to realise that. 

He bares the valley of his hip and then a bush of dark curly hair. All of that is expected; what comes next isn’t. 

52's briefs fall down his legs and join the black puddle at his feet, revealing not the cock Tarkin was anticipating but the soft folds of a vulva. 

That’s… disappointing. Tarkin’s interests have always lain elsewhere. 

There are other clones Tarkin can summon instead. Best have this one armour up and slink away. Except…

52 hands twitch at his side and his throat bobs. He looks delightfully uncomfortable and Tarkin is curious. 

“Were you involved in an accident?” Tarkin asks, though it’s clear that’s no injury. There’s a benefit to giving men a length of rope just to see what they do with it. 

What 52 does is squirm. Red flushes over his face and he presses his eyes shut for just a moment, hands moving to cover his shame before catching himself and jerking them back. 

“It’s a mutation, sir,” 52 croaks. “A problem with my chromosomes. I’ve had an implant that produces corrective hormones since I was a cadet. It has never affected my performance. Sir.” 

“I’m sure it hasn’t,” Tarkin says, and taps his desk with one long finger. The leather of his glove muffles the sound but 52's eyes flick to the movement. 

52 is highly competent and works with deadly efficacy. He has walked fearlessly into odds that would make even Tarkin blanch, and clawed out victory. Naked in his superior's office and he looks terrified. 

Tarkin thinks he can make this work. 

“In my fresher, second cupboard, you’ll find a stack of clean towels,” Tarkin says. “Bring me one.”

52 isn’t stupid. He knows where this must be going. He stumbles, feet catching in the pile of his clothes at his feet, but rights himself quickly, and does exactly as he’s told, like the good soldier he is. 

Cock or not, he has the same broad back and tight ass as the rest of his kind and Tarkin’s own cock fills appreciatively at the sight. 

He puts the heel of his hand over it, rolling his hips up to meet it. He settles back in his chair into the warmth that sparks from his crotch and listens. 52 is perfectly quiet, which is hardly a surprise considering his training but Tarkin imagines he can track him anyway. The towel will be easy to find, and 52 isn’t stupid, he won’t lose any time that way. The real question is if he’ll take a moment to steady himself. It’s always a nice fantasy; these are men built for war and with the way they throw themselves into combat you would think they’ve never tasted fear. 

Tarkin knows better. He knows that sometimes they place a hand on either side of his sink and glare at their reflections and make promises to themselves that they’ll get through this without crying. 

52 reappears in the door with the towel clutched to his chest. It’s as white as any troopers’ armour and softer than the gear the Empire will have given 52. 

Tarkin doesn’t have to prompt 52 further. He crosses the room, moving around Tarkin’s desk until he’s stood right in front of him. He really does look just like any other clone. Even the hair around his crotch grows in the same way. How many of them are there like this?

52 feels big this close. Tarkin is taller than 52 but Tarkin is sitting while 52 looms. And 52 has broad shoulders and a weight advantage. 52’s hand trembles oh-so-slightly as he offers Tarkin the towel. Naked and with his vulva on display 52 is vulnerable and entirely nonthreatening.  

Tarkin folds the towel over one knee. 52 isn’t looking at him but at the bulge in Tarkin’s underwear, staring with wide eyes.

“Straddle my lap, Commander, facing me. You may brace yourself on the table or my shoulders if you wish but if you make a mess of my uniform you’ll find you won’t enjoy the consequences,” Tarkin says. Bent over the desk or even on it with his legs spread might be easier but it’s hardly worth it if the clone doesn’t have to look at him. 

52's breath shudders but he does exactly as he is told, putting one thigh on either side of one of Tarkin’s, his vulva a foot or so over the towel. He leans back on the desk with both hands and it puts a lovely curve in his back, presenting his crotch for inspection. 

52 stares over Tarkin’s head, his throat bobbing. Tarkin does some looking of his own. 

It’s more or less what he’d expected from a vulva, two fat folds with a long line down the middle where they meet. 52's position pulls the folds apart, and there’s soft brown inside and the tip of a clitoris peaking between them at the top. 

52 adjusts his weight and the for a second his labia spread wider showing off more of that soft skin.

With two thumbs, Tarkin pulls them open. 

52 gasps, flinches, and then shoves himself back into position.  

“Stay still, Commander,” Tarkin admonishes. 52 jerks his head in a nod, knuckles white through his skin as he grips the desk. 

His clitoris is bigger than Tarkin would have expected, possibly a side effect of those corrective hormones of his, but Tarkin doesn't have much to compare it against. He drags a finger down the middle between the smaller folds. The leather of his glove drags against the skin until it doesn’t, slipping deeper, though not inside, and finds wet slick. 

“I am under the impression this is a sign of arousal, Commander? Is that correct?” he asks, swirling his finger over the entrance to the man’s vagina. 

52 makes a helpless choking sound and Tarkin’s pulse makes itself known in his cock.

“Commander?” Tarkin prompts. 

“Sometimes,” 52 squeaks, voice almost an octave higher than normal. “Sometimes it just does that.”

Tarkin hums. He walks his fingers back up, slick now easing the way. He squeezes the soft flesh of 52's folds and flicks at the end of 52's clitoris. 52 jerks, and Tarkin would remind him of his orders to keep still but he twitches into Tarkin’s hand and not away. 

Tarkin has never been tempted by this particular set of genitalia, but framed by 52's strong thighs and attached to such a handsome man, he can see the appeal. 

He flicks at 52's clitoris again, just to hear the man gasp and then catches it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“What do you call this?” he asks. 

52 doesn’t answer. He squeezes his eyes  and twists his head away. 

Tarkin isn’t a man who takes well to being ignored. He’s been gentle so far, but 52 would do well to remember that can change. 

He pinches 52's clitoris and tugs sharply away from 52's body. The clone yelps, and for a second his discipline cracks and he lunges for Tarkin’s arm. He remembers himself before he even makes contact. The desk rattles as he slams his hand back down onto it. Eriadu shakes in its hover, threatening to tumble off its stand.

Very good. 

“What term would you use for this?” Tarkin repeats, ignoring the outburst, still pulling unkindly on 52's clitoris. 

52's throat bobs and finally, hoarsely forces out, “my cock, sir.” 

It does look like a little cock, the head is almost identical but for the missing slit and obviously the size. 

To reward his obedience, Tarkin flicks at the head of 52's cock again, repeating the motion until 52 tenses some muscle somewhere and the whole of his vulva twitches.  

It really is quite lovely. 

“And here?” Tarkin asks, siding his fingers back down to 52's vagina. He presses against the hole, the shape of 52's vulva guiding his fingers until they catch on the edge of it.

This time 52 knows better than to hesitate.

“My cunt, sir,” he whispers.

Tarkin makes a face; what vulgar terminology. 

With one hand spreading 52's folds, Tarkin forces two fingers into 52's cunt. 

52 sobs. He slaps a hand over his mouth immediately, though Tarkin never ordered him to be quiet. The entrance is tight but the insides are soft, almost spongy and hot even through the leather of Tarkin’s gloves. He’s very wet, Tarkin’s fingers meeting no friction as they slide right up to the final knuckle. 

52 stares down at where Tarkin’s hand meets his body, abject horror clear as day across his face, even with half of it hidden behind his hand. This is why Tarkin has them face him. 

52's legs tremble and his shoulders shake as he tries not to sob again.

He’s gorgeous. 

Tarkin watches 52's cunt as he pulls his fingers out, his cunt clinging to them despite 52's obvious distress. The leather of his gloves shine with 52's slick. It’s not what he was expecting, it’s not fully clear and clings in thick blobs in some places, stark against perfect black. 52's cunt twitches again and a whimper escapes past 52's hand. 

Tarkin watches 52's face as he shoves the fingers back in. 

52's eyes go wide, hand curling, nails digging into the skin of his cheek. Tarkin wouldn’t have guessed 52 would be the type to cry but he may have underestimated him; 52's eyes look wet. 

Tarkin needs to do something about how the man is hiding, however. He presses his thumb down on 52's cock, and it gives in a way a cock wouldn’t. Everything about 52's cunt is so soft. 

He’s almost tempted to get his own cock out and see how 52's cunt feels wrapped around it. It wouldn’t be the first time, but as a rule he does try to avoid intercourse with clones. 

Tarkin might be lacking hands-on experience but he’s hardly uninformed, thumb circling 52's cock, he curls the fingers inside him until 52's entrance clenches around him. Red creeps up the clone’s face from behind his hand.

“You’re going to ride my fingers,” Tarkin says, continuing the motion both inside and outside of 52. 52 doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move other than the tremble he still hasn’t pulled under control. “Are you listening to me, Commander?” 

52 drags his eyes up, flinches away and then takes a ragged breath. His eyes twitch but he can’t bring himself to meet Tarkin’s eyes again.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “I’m going to—” he makes a wet sound in his throat. “I’m going to ride your fingers. Sir.”

“You’re going to ride my fingers, and show me how one orgasms with a cock such as yours. Should I be impressed enough with your performance, you’ll be free to return to your quarters.” Some men require the punishment being laid out for them, but 52 has always been imaginative. Tarkin trusts his brilliant mind will provide all sorts of possibilities. “In your own time, Commander.”

52 peels his hand from his face, the lingering imprint of it visible even against his flushed face. That seems to be as far as he’s able to go. Some of them need more prompting or even a heavy hand, but Tarkin is willing to be patient with 52; he suspects the Commander will get there given a little time and it will be all the sweeter for it. 

52 reaches for his cock and then pulls back, hand curling into a fist. Tarkin keeps his fingers buried in 52's cunt. 52's breathing speeds up, panting like an animal hitching with little hiccupping sobs. A tear streaks down his cheek and Tarkin can’t hold back a noise of his own at that. He lets out the softest sigh but 52 jolts like he’s been struck. 

52 grabs his cock between his thumb and two fingers, fingers on one side, thumb on the other, his little cock caught between them. Any doubt that Tarkin could be attracted to a man like this burns up as 52 strokes his cock over Tarkin’s lap. It swells under 52's jerky movements, growing until it pushes out from his crotch to four centimetres in length.

52's cunt flutters around Tarkin’s fingers and 52 sits a little heavier, Tarkin's’ fist pressing up against him, his fingers slipping deeper. 52 is reminded of the other part of his orders. 

He sniffs, a matching tear running down the other side of his face, and then hauls himself up, lifting himself off Tarkin’s fingers. Only the very tips remain inside 52 and 52 holds himself like that, thighs straining from the awkward angle, leaning back heavily on the hand he still has on the desk, the other still holding his cock. 

The slip back in is even better, warmth swallowing up Tarkin’s fingers and 52 letting a whimper slip between his teeth. He won’t look at Tarkin, but can’t stop himself from looking. He glares at the wall, looks down at where Tarkin’s hand is inside him and then jerks his head away back to the wall only to repeat again. 

Despite his obvious distress he doesn’t stop, or beg, or anything so unsightly. If will alone was enough to stop from crying, Tarkin knows he wouldn’t be doing that either. His self control is admirable.

52 raises and lowers his hips, riding Tarkin’s fingers just as he agreed he would, pulling on his cock. He struggles to breathe, reduced to shallow gasps that make his chest heave, his pecs jumping just in front of Tarkin’s face. There’s the same faded marks on 52's chest as his face. Uniformity is of far greater importance than Tarkin’s fancies but he wishes he could have seen this one before their removal. 

A line of slick leaks out past Tarkin’s fingers and trickles down the palm of his glove. 52 is so wet, the fingers of Tarkin’s gloves are soaked in it, and he’s starting to overflow, slick gushing down Tarkin’s hand and the insides of 52's thighs. He’s leaking from the other end too, tears spilling down his cheeks as he sniffles and sobs. 

Tarkin’s cock presses against the inside of his underwear, a small stain of his own growing on the white material. It would be so very easy to pull 52 down onto his lap and have the clone ride his cock instead of his hand. Maybe that would be enough to have the man begging.

Tarkin rubs his thumb over 52's folds and adjusts himself — easing the tightness on his cock — but allowing himself no more liberties.

52's eyes flash fearfully to Tarkin’s cock, his mouth opening and then closing with a snap, freezing fingers half in half out. He squeezes nervously around Tarkin’s hand.

“I’m a man of my word, Commander,” Tarkin reminds him sharply, offended that 52 would think otherwise.

52 doesn’t believe him, there’s no hiding the way his throat bobs and the way water pools in his eyes. Slowly, sniffing again, 52 sinks back down onto Tarkin’s fingers. He keeps rubbing at his cock, squeezing it between his fingers with a familiarity that makes it more than clear that this isn’t his first time. 

It’s a nice fantasy, one that Tarkin might return to, Marshal Commander 5052 with a hand down his bodyglove playing with his little cock. Any attempts to grow an army above such base needs was a categorical failure. The clones are perverts to the man, unable to keep their hands to themselves.

Between 52's  pathetic little pants the occasional sweeter noise slips through as 52 works himself closer to where Tarkin has ordered him.

Leaning back on the desk for leverage isn’t a good position for what 52 is trying to achieve. The angle is all wrong and while he can strain his thighs to even their impressive limit to raise and lower his hips he can’t do so with the speed and force Tarkin would like from him. It does have the advantage of forcing 52's hips forward, presenting himself to Tarkin’s appreciative gaze.

But it’s not what Tarkin wants. He wants this clone to fall apart and know that Tarkin’s fingers filling up his lovely cunt helped make it happen.

Tarkin wraps a hand around behind 52, digging fingers into the meat of his lovely ass, pulling it away enough he’s sure the clone will feel the cold breeze on his hole. 

“You’re testing my patience,” he says, though he could watch 52 play with himself for hours.

52 meets his eye for a moment, jaw jutting out stubbornly despite the tears on his face and the quiver to his mouth. Stubborn or not, neither of them are surprised when 52 yields. 

Gingerly, and it’s hard to tell if it’s all unwillingness to touch Tarkin more than he has to or if he remembers the warning about Tarkin's’ uniform, 52 puts his hand on Tarkin’s shoulder. It brings him closer, it forces him to lean over Tarkin and show off the sweat beading on his chest and running down the lines of his muscles. It also gives 52 a better angle to take Tarkin’s fingers. 52 drops down onto Tarkin's hand and his cunt takes Tarkin’s fingers to the knuckles with a large squelch, slick falling to the towel under him. 

52 flinches, twisting his face away and biting his lip. He lifts himself with Tarkin’s shoulder, and he can set a real pace like this, bouncing on Tarkin’s hand almost as fast as he can tug on his cock. 

Tarkin spreads his fingers, just a touch, feeling 52's entrance stretch to fit him and he’s rewarded with another wet sound as slick drips down into Tarkin’s palm.

“Is it always so loud?” Tarkin asks.

52 sobs and nods frantically, still unwilling to turn his head back.

It’s a pointless effort. 52's arousal smells tangy between them and he squeezes helplessly around Tarkin. His cock is swollen and desperate and jumps each time he fills himself with Tarkin’s fingers. 

They all put up such a struggle, but they’re all as needy as a hound in heat when given even the slightest attention.

Tarkin’s cock throbs in time to his increasing heart rate, his shirt sticking a little to heated skin. 

52 raises and lowers himself over Tarkin’s lap, face twisting in the most enticing way. 

52 doesn’t give him any warning, though one is hardly needed. He rubs at his cock, leaning more heavily on Tarkin’s shoulder, squeezing tighter around Tarkin’s fingers, lips parting as he wheezes. His muscles strain under his skin and when he drops back down Tarkin shoves his fingers up to meet him, curling up into that place that had upset him so much earlier.

The clone’s breath stalls, he pulls in one desperate gasp, his hand tightening on Tarkin. Clear liquid, much thinner than his slick, sprays from his cunt down over Tarkin’s hand. His cunt spasms and 52 jerks his hips, cock jumping in his hand. 52 makes almost no sound, but humps his hand as he cries and trembles his way through an orgasm.

He’s very obedient, stroking his twitching cock until he’s got nothing left to give. Only then does he drop it to his side, sagging unhappily. 

Tarkin is generous enough to give him several seconds to recover.

“Are you still having trouble standing, Commander?” he asks.

52 jerks his hand back from Tarkin’s shoulder, scrambling at the desk to maintain his balance. Eriadu finally loses its struggle and wobbles too far, falling to the desk with a dull thump.

52's eyes are red from crying and his lip is chewed up. Sweat clings to his skin and he shakes a little as he tries to maintain any form of composure. 

The clones really are fine specimens. 

Tarkin keeps his hand where it is, rubbing his fingers a little. It would be nice if he could break 52's composure like that, finally have him verbalise some complaint at the handling but he’s far too disciplined. If Tarkin broke his word and ordered 52 to bend over the desk and let Tarkin use him that way he’d do so without a word.

The clones are such an interesting breed.

Tarkin slides out his fingers, a line of slick coming with them, connecting the tips of Tarkin’s fingers to 52's cunt. 52 sees it too, and he cringes from it, cunt shifting as he tenses.

Tarkin’s glove shines with 52's slick, not just his fingers but down his palm too.

“You’ve made quite the mess, Commander,” Tarkin says, and rubs his fingers together eyeing it with distaste. It’s good quality leather, it will survive 52's cunt, but he believes in people cleaning up after themselves.

Tarkin holds out his hand, placing it just in front of 52's face. 52's a clever man, but it doesn’t take a clever man to understand what is being asked of him. Tarkin watches expectantly.

52 stares back, and for a moment it looks like he might have found some defiance; Tarkin is endlessly fascinated by where men draw the line. Tarkin raises his eyebrows in a silent question and 52 looks away. He opens his mouth. 

Tarkin pushes his fingers into 52's mouth, pressing down on his tongue, pushing deep, deep enough that 52 makes a hoarse sound around them, throat fluttering. Tarkin lets 52 choke around his fingers until he’s sure that 52 really will take this without complaint. 52's a Marshal Commander, he’s led campaigns that have brought entire planets to their knees.

He licks and sucks obediently on Tarkin’s fingers, cleaning his own slick from the leather.

52 keeps his eyes down, and submission is always such a lovely look on a clone’s face, but it suits 52 particularly. 52 drags the flat of his tongue over the bottom of Tarkin’s fingers and then slides it between them. His teeth graze the leather without any threat of biting. 

Light flashes between 52's legs catching Tarkin’s eye. Slick drips from is cunt down to the towel below, joining the tiny wet spot. His thighs are shiny too, 52's cunt betraying its owner and adding to his humiliation. 

There must be others like him. It would be nothing to search the medical records and enjoy them alongside the genitals he’s accustomed to. 

It’s something to consider.

52 sits back, tongue swiping over his lips to clean away the lingering slick. Tarkin would love to discipline him for a sloppy job, but as with all things, 52 is impeccably thorough. 

He supposes he should let the clone slink back to his quarters and lick his wounds. Although…

There’s a dark spot on the grey of Tarkin’s sleeve.

He sighs. He had warned 52.

Tarkin picks at it, and 52's eyes lock on immediately. He inhales sharply, rattling the desk as he shifts.

“Do you know what this is, Commander?” Tarkin asks.

52 has the audacity to look at him with big pleading eyes. Tarkin curls his lip and that is all the reminder 52 needs that he only has himself to blame for this.

“It’s mine,” he mumbles.

“I didn’t ask if it was yours, I asked what it was,” Tarkin says.

“It’s my come, sir,” 52 says, and presses himself back against the edge of the desk like those extra few millimetres will somehow save him.

“How did it get there?” Tarkin pulls his seat closer to the desk, robbing 52 of that illusion.

“It’s from when I…” he swallows and colour seeps from his face. “From when I squirted. Sir.”

Squirted. It’s an apt if viscerally descriptive word for what 52 had done. 

“We agreed you would be punished if you made a mess of my uniform,” Tarkin reminds him.

52 nods, closing his eyes for the briefest second and dragging in a deep breath, the kind that makes his chest expand and does nothing to still the tremble in his thighs.

Tarkin cups 52's cunt, dipping a finger in to rub at his hole. He’s done no research on the topic, but he can imagine that if 52's parts are as sensitive as the clone’s reactions implied, that sensitivity probably applies in other ways.

He pulls his hand back and brings it up sharply to meet 52's cunt.

52 jolts, muscles tensing, bringing definition to his musculature. His cunt twitches and slick drips down into Tarkin’s palm. 

The second strike is harder and 52 isn’t able to swallow back a whine. 

Tarkin doesn’t give 52 a number — he doesn’t have one in mind — he’ll spank the clone’s cunt until he thinks the lesson has been learned. 

There’s a lot of fat to cushion the blows, but 52's cock is still swollen and when the heel of Tarkin’s hand strikes it 52 whimpers and his thighs twitch, threatening to snap shut to protect himself.

It’s not the right angle for it, and it’s not like a pair of balls that protest any careless handling, but 52 squirms and whines delightfully even if Tarkin suspects it's more from the humiliation than the pain. 

He hits 52 again, his hand slapping wetly against 52's soaking cunt. He lands the next one a little higher, firmly across the head of 52's cock, swollen beyond the fat that might protect it. 52 squeaks, a noise Tarkin would never have expected to be pulled from such a man.

If he had a crop he could spread 52 over his desk and see exactly how much pain the clone’s little cock could handle.

The urge to sink his own cock into 52's cunt throbs again and he shifts in his chair. 

When there’s a red-pink undertone to 52's genitals Tarkin decides 52 has had enough. It is only a very small spot and it wouldn't do to be overzealous in punishing him.

Tarkin rubs over the area he’s just disciplined, pressing fingers against 52's cunt again and squashing 52's cock between hand and pubic bone. It really is a lovely set of anatomy.

This has been very enlightening.

52's tears have dried up, leaving shining marks on his face, but his eyes are clear. He meets Tarkin’s eye blankly, unmoving as Tarkin continues to feel him between his legs. He looks like he’s reached a numb sort of acceptance, like he thinks there’s nothing left for Tarkin to do to him.

It’s foolish the way that makes Tarkin’s pride bristle, that this clone would dare assume anything about him.

It’s a spur of the moment decision, not something he would usually do, but he trusts 52 to know to be discreet. He stretches to the desk reaching to where 52 knocked over the model of Eriadu. It’s smooth and much larger than two of Tarkin’s fingers. And it’s heavy.

“Have you heard of lommite ore?” Tarkin asks, and then continues without waiting for a response. “It’s used in the making of transparisteel.”

52 isn’t listening. He’s shaking his head even as the rest of him remains perfectly still. He opens his mouth and wheezes wordlessly as Tarkin presses the model up against his cunt. 

“It’s the primary export of Eriadu, where I was born.” Tarkin pushes it, marvelling at how 52's cunt stretches desperately to accommodate it. The widest part slips in and then the whole rest of it follows without any fuss. 52 whines and fidgets, his cunt convulsing around the unwanted intrusion.

“That is a scale model,” Tarkin informs him. “Made of lommite and approximately two hundred million times smaller than the real thing.”

Tarkin pushes his fingers in after it, ensuring it is deep inside 52's cunt. It’s actually a little larger than that, though not by much which is for the best; 52 doesn’t look like he could have taken much larger.  When he removes them, he wipes them clean on 52's hip rather than making him clean up again.

52 doesn’t seem to notice this act of mercy. 

“Very good, Commander,” Tarkin says, and 52's shoulders slump in defeated sort of relief. “You may get dressed and take your leave.”

52 doesn’t wait to be told twice, he shuffles around the desk, not turning his back until it is between him and Tarkin, as though he wouldn't walk himself right back over if Tarkin changed his mind.

It’s not as prominent as a limp, but there's an oddness to 52’s gait, making it very clear that he’s feeling his parting gift. Tarkin liked that model, though it was inexpensive for a man with his salary and easily replaceable. He probably should have reined in his impulsive desires.

52 yanks on his underwear and bodyglove, back to Tarkin. His shoulders are shaking in a way that suggests he might have started crying again. Tarkin really had been wrong about his assessment of that.

If he’s losing the model, he might as well make sure he gets as much out of it as he can.

“Commander,” he says, and 52 freezes, chest-plate half attached. “While what you do with it in the interim is up to you, if I call you here again I expect to find that where I left it. Am I understood?”

52 nods, one single jerk of his head. He continues to kit up.

Tarkin rarely calls the same clone back twice, and even with 52's unique anatomy providing a tempting reason to, he doubts he will. Still, it will do 52 good to dwell on the possibility. 

52 turns only once he’s fully dressed, helmet resealed. He looks none the worse for wear, but Tarkin’s eyes are still drawn down to his crotch and his hidden cunt and the extra weight he’s now carrying.

“You’re dismissed, Commander,” Tarkin says, and 52 manages a salute before he bolts from the room. Tarkin’s ignored desire curls hot in his belly. 

Tarkin lifts the towel from his lap, folding the side wet with 52’s slick in on itself. 

That was remarkably successful.

Tarkin stands, rebuckling his trousers even if he’s not going very far. His underwear drags teasingly over his hard cock and the temptation to just pull it out right there in the office is compelling. He doesn’t succumb to it, flicking off the lights and making his way through to his bedroom.

It’s hardly proper to have his cock out in his office, after all.