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"I hope my milk is to master's liking this morning," the droid tittered flirtatiously, bending down to place a kiss on her owner's cheek with her durasteel grill. She skipped away, her short cape fluttering above her perky synthskin ass.
Ever since her update, she'd become the perfect doting droid, anticipating his every need. She was fully vocal now, with the sweet feminine voice of a sex droid, her every sentence twisted into a vulgar innuendo or sweet flattery of her human owner. Luke admired the servile droid as she fried womp rat bacon, her body bent invitingly over the stove.
"I thought we could finish stripping out the last of your armor plating after breakfast," he mused through a mouthful of cereal. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No more armor? Just soft skin. I could drop by Watto's and find you a new head. I can't promise it'll be the prettiest but it'll be better than that bucket."
"Ma-master is too kind," she stammered. She never said no, never denied him, he was quite sure her programming forbade such disobedience, though she had her indirect way of voicing her displeasure. "But Master can surely find more enjoyable things to do with me, no?"
"At least let me give you a paint job. Pink would look so much better on you than black."
"Master knows what is best of course," she mewled diplomatically. "But how will anyone recognize me if you keep altering me?"
Who would possibly recognize her, Luke pondered. Curious about her origins, he'd asked around at the cantinas. To his surprise, nobody on Tatooine could recall ever seeing, let alone owning, such a thing as her. Where she came from and who had been her master prior to coming into the Jawa's ownership was a mystery. Every time he replaced one of her armored plates with supple synthflesh, his hands deep within her inner workings, he used those long intimate hours to search for her serial number, to no avail.
It was as if she had simply fallen from the sky.
Uncle Owen stomped inside, shaking sand from his boots. "The power supply to vaporator six is on the fritz again. Have you seen the gonk droid anywhere?"
"No, Uncle," Luke replied innocently, lowering his gaze to his bowl of cereal.
"Hmph. Droids. Never around when you need one. I'll visit the Jawas. Maybe they have a spare going cheap."
"They're back already?"
His Uncle nodded. "Rolled in this morning. Still trying to peddle those two droids from before." He cast a dark look at the pleasure droid, his loathing undisguised. He disliked having the thing in the kitchen. Beyond just the sanitary implications, there was just something about the droid that unsettled him. Every time she picked up a knife to carve a womp rat for dinner, his heart rate spiked. "Maybe they'll accept a trade. Or a refund."
"Uncle, I told you, we don't need an astromech droid. She's very smart. She helped improve the transmitter."
Luke thought it best not to add that she'd done so completely unbidden. Nor that she'd cannibalized the family's GNK droid for its battery, boosting the transmitter's range a thousandfold. And he especially didn't mention that, when he'd caught her, she'd already realigned the transmitter towards Coruscant, the heart of Imperial space.
He'd had to discipline her roughly for her willfulness.
"Hmph. You're right. Well we sure as hell don't need two of them around here," Uncle Owen muttered.
"Huh?"
"Seems the amount you paid the Jawas last time got them all in a tizzy. Gave them a few ideas. They started modifying all their droids." He shook his head in dismay. "That poor astromech. Beats me how a chassis that small can lug around synthskin tits that bi-"
There came the clatter of a spoon in a bowl. When he glanced up, Luke was gone, his stool slowly rotating. That boy could move damn fast when he wanted to.
"Shouldn't have told him that," he groaned.