Rey barely made it to the bed when she saw him approaching. She turned to face him. “No. Turn around,” he said. “Lay flat on your stomach.” She heard a clink of metal as he took off his belt and a rustle of cloth. He slipped his hands under her hips, grabbed her trousers, and yanked them down in few rough movements.
She tried to change the position of her head to see him better, but he collapsed on her, pinning her to the mattress. He grabbed her wrists and held them tight; his mouth was on her ears, neck, his fever-hot body on top of her.
She felt his cock, hard and thick between her legs as he pushed, clueless and desperate, always missing, yet he repeated these uncoordinated attempts to the point where her thighs were totally wet. He moved his hand to hold her by the neck, then he grabbed her head, and finally he broke away from her in frustration, only to seize her hips with sweaty palms.
She could feel his weight shifting to the left, then to the right, and she imagined that probably he was trying to get a better look at her to figure out what to do. “If this is the first time…” “No more talking!” he barked, and dropped on her, but this time she didn’t have a chance to come up with a response, because he entered her with one surprisingly effective and painful thrust.
Rey stifled a cry of pain and tried to focus on her breathing, waiting for the sensation to recede. Her body was a useful tool to her: strong legs that let her run fast and jump far distances, and that carried her through miles of desert land in search of goods. Nimble hands, seizing every crack and fissure in the walls she climbed, skillful fingers, able to find and extract treasures from wrecks...
...At the same time, her body served as a valuable currency that helped her survive when illness or injury made it impossible for her to work. Finally, it gave her pleasure when the outpost was visited by handsome boys from unknown lands who—just like her— didn’t want to spend nights alone on this cursed planet. She gritted her teeth and decided to endure just like she always did.
All of it ended abruptly, just the way it had started. Kylo made few last awkward thrusts, then suddenly stopped. With a feral growl he fell, his limp body forcing all of the air out of her lungs, almost crushing her. His tunic was damp, his hair, now falling on her chin, was soaked with sweat.
For a moment she thought that she was really going to suffocate, but then he rolled on his side, taking her with him, wrapping her in a strong embrace. He curled around her and buried his face in her hair. They lay like that, without speaking, until Rey couldn’t stand the awkwardness any longer.
“Kylo Ren!” she exclaimed. “You will give me my stuff back!” She felt rather than heard him holding his breath, then, without a warning, he released her and stood up. He fastened his belt with shaking hands. “Get dressed!”
She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, but obeyed. They didn’t talk when Kylo put his mask on or when they walked out of the room, Kylo leading her through the corridors back to her cell. Rey’s hair was tousled, her clothes disheveled, black pants stained and thighs sticky. If the stormtroopers guarding the entrance to her cell noticed a change in her appearance, they didn’t show it in any way.
She stepped inside in silence, but she refused to look away from him. He made a move as if he wanted to leave, but stopped “Search her backpack,” he ordered. “If you find anything that might help her escape, confiscate it. Her other things, apart from weapons, can be brought into the cell. Her lightsaber should be stored in the training room.” He avoided her gaze, a silent admission of defeat.
She smiled a little, an expression spiteful but hollow. Rey was born a fighter: she fought hard, gracelessly and dirty, and the wasteland of Jakku had made her a winner, not out of ambition or pride, but out of necessity. There were no second chances in the desert.
Kylo Ren was a killer. He knew death and suffering, but it was rather a matter of morals and choice for him, not survival. He had never spent a night outside during a sandstorm. He hadn’t robbed the dying and or stolen from the dead. He was never thirsty, and he had never starved. But he had known a gentle touch and longed for it, a secret that made him weak and ultimately would make him yield. She knew that.