A Traitor to Order 📱 SUBSCRIPTION

Under the iron fist of the Galactic Empire, former Republic Senator Mon Mothma finally met her doom. Once a pillar of the Rebel Alliance, a female leader known for her wisdom and determination, she was now being roughly escorted by Imperial stormtroopers into an interrogation room on the Death Star. Her white robes were torn and tattered, fragments of her former glory scattered across the cold metal floor. The soldiers laughed as they shoved her to the ground, announcing, "Senator Mon Mothma, you are under arrest." At that moment, Mon Mothma's heart sank; she knew it was not just failure, but utter destruction.

The interrogation room door slid open, a stifling aura of darkness flooding in. Darth Vader himself appeared, his mechanical breathing echoing in the confined space like the whispers of death. Vader's tall, cloaked figure stood before her, the red lightsaber hilt gleaming menacingly at his waist. He did not rush to act, but instead used the Force to gently lift Mon Mothma's chin, forcing her to look directly into the cold black mask. "Your rebellion ends here, Senator," Vader's voice was deep and cold. "Tell me the secrets of the Rebel Alliance, or you will taste the true pain of the Empire."

Mon Mothma suppressed her fear, trying to maintain her dignity. "I will say nothing," she gritted out, "The Empire is nothing but tyranny incarnate." But Vader merely emitted a low chuckle. His Force, like invisible shackles, wrapped around her, invading her mind, forcing her to relive those failed battles, those sacrificed comrades. Pain surged like a tide, and her body involuntarily trembled.

The interrogation officially began. The soldiers secured Mon Mothma to a specially designed interrogation table, a device of cruel ingenuity that forced her legs wide apart, compelling her to kneel in an extremely humiliating position. Her private parts were fully exposed to the harsh glare of the lights, her full labia outlining a cameltoe beneath her taut skin, as if silently mocking her helplessness. Shame burned like fire through her soul, her cheeks flushed, and she tried to twist her body to cover herself, but the restraints held her firmly in place. The soldiers stood around, whispering and mocking, "Look at the noble senator, now like a cheap slave." Mon Mothma had never felt such profound humiliation, her mind screamed, but her body strangely produced an uncontrollable tremor—a twisted pleasure in being watched, that began to erode her will.

Vader did not leave, he retreated to the side and continued to personally supervise the interrogation. His figure loomed in the shadows of the room, his red eyes watching her every small struggle. Mon Mothma could feel his gaze cutting into her dignity like a blade, which made her even more desperate.

Suddenly, a large screen lit up, and Vader's face appeared on it. He was remotely monitoring the entire process from the Death Star's command center. His breathing was amplified through the speakers, echoing in the interrogation room. "Continue," he commanded, "Let her understand the mercy of the Empire." The Vader on the screen was like a ruthless observer, watching Mon Mothma's every gasp, every twitch.

The next phase of the interrogation was taken over by Imperial interrogation droid XX003. The cold, mechanical monster floated in, its tentacles extended like steel whips, flashing with blue electricity. The droid had no emotion, only programmed cruelty. It began by scanning Mon Mothma's entire body with probes, the cold metal touching her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Then, it began to inject a special serum designed to amplify her senses, making both pain and pleasure exponentially more intense. "Target: Mon Mothma," the droid announced in a monotone voice, "Initiating will-breaking protocol."

The milking interrogation commenced. This was a vile tactic designed by the Empire specifically for female prisoners, intended to shatter their pride. The droid secured two transparent milking cups to Mon Mothma's full breasts, these cups lined with tiny barbs and suction cups. When the machine started, the cups began to squeeze and pull violently, her breasts forcibly milked, a milky liquid (induced by the serum) spraying out. Pain surged through her body like electricity, she screamed and arched her back, her breasts swollen as if about to burst. "Stop! Please!" she begged, but the droid remained unmoved. Mon Mothma's will was collapsing, she felt a bizarre pleasure mixed with the pain—her nipples were stimulated to an extreme sensitivity, each squeeze involuntarily moistening her genitals. This contradiction filled her with shame; she was a noble senator, now like a milch cow being milked.

At the climax of the interrogation, one of the milking cups suddenly detached, revealing her swollen, ravaged breast. Her breast swayed violently, the pain unbearable. To relieve this throbbing, Mon Mothma's instincts awoke in desperation. She twisted her body, throwing that breast towards her mouth, and began to suckle frantically. Warm liquid flowed into her throat, her face covered in tears and shame, but this self-abasement brought a moment of relief. The watching soldiers burst into laughter, and on Vader's screen, his breathing seemed to have a satisfied rhythm. Mon Mothma knew her body was betraying her, that uncontrollable addiction was beginning to fester—the pleasure hidden in the pain, making her question her resistance.

Just as she was on the verge of collapse, a young female interrogator walked in. The woman was dressed in the Empire's black uniform, beautiful in appearance, but with a hint of cold charm. She crouched down and gently caressed Mon Mothma's cheek. "Senator, why do you still persist?" she whispered. "Do you see your body? It craves more. Join us, the Empire will give you true freedom—bodily freedom." The female interrogator's hand slid down to Mon Mothma's chest, gently tweaking a swollen nipple, mixing persuasion with the words: "Think of those soldiers, they will give you orgasms you have never felt before. Confess, end all this pain."

Mon Mothma's defenses finally crumbled. The lingering pain of the milking and the female interrogator's temptation led her to confess. "Okay… I… I'll talk," she gasped, her voice trembling, "The Rebel base is in the Yavin system… the coordinates are…" Tears fell, she knew this meant betrayal, but the exhaustion and that strange pleasure made her unable to resist any longer.

She had completely submitted. The information was quickly transmitted to Vader, and the Death Star's guns were aimed at Yavin. The Rebel camp was reduced to ashes in a devastating bombardment. The Battle of Yavin was a complete failure, and the hope of the Rebel Alliance vanished. Mon Mothma witnessed it all on the screen, her heart as cold as ashes. She was once a hero, but now she was a traitor, and the Empire's victory was built on her submission.

After the confession, Mon Mothma lost her intelligence value, but the Empire did not grant her death. Instead, she was thrown to a group of ravenous Imperial soldiers as a "reward." They took turns violating her, pinning her on the interrogation table, and brutally entering her body. Mon Mothma screamed and struggled, but the soldiers' laughter drowned out her voice. Her labia were repeatedly rubbed raw, her breasts were pinched and bruised, and each impact brought searing pain, yet mixed with the serum-induced pleasure. She tried to resist, but her body's instincts betrayed her—orgasms came again and again, plunging her into shame. The soldiers mocked her: "Look at this traitor, now enjoying it like a whore!" Mon Mothma's will was completely broken, and she began to seek that twisted relief in pain, becoming a plaything for the soldiers to vent their lust.

After the Empire finally achieved total victory, Mon Mothma's fate was further twisted. As a demonstration of "leniency" towards traitors, she was transformed into a living tea-service droid. This was an Imperial propaganda tool, symbolizing the punishment of traitors. She was taken to a modification lab, where her limbs were cruelly bound backwards, amputated, and replaced with mechanical prosthetics. These prosthetics allowed her to move like a puppet, for the amusement of Imperial officers. The front of her body was completely naked, without a single covering, her full breasts and private parts exposed. The modified device allowed her to "serve" liquid at any time—a drink mixed with humiliation.

Now, Mon Mothma wanders aimlessly through the corridors of the Death Star, her eyes empty, her face bearing an eternal numbness. Officers casually press buttons, causing her body to spray "tea," drinking it while mocking: "This is the price of betraying the Empire." She was once a senator, now just a tool, a soul completely corrupted in the Empire's shadow. That uncontrollable, perverse addiction is deeply ingrained, reminding her with every use: The line between pain and pleasure has been forever erased by the Empire.