(SWG) Vanity's Downfall

I lay in the Darkness of the small Tatooinian house, surrounded by a certain kind of silence which only was interrupted by low humming sounds of the cooling/heating fan on the ceiling and the occasional hushed beeping of His datapad resting on the nightstand next to the bed.
Blue and yellow flashes broke the pitch black of the night every time a new message arrived, and I watched them dancing elegantly over furniture and glasses as I stared into the nothingness my mind had evolved.
He would wake with my lips wrapped around his shaft, I promised myself for the thousandth time, as he had wished before falling asleep earlier that night. I was not to touch him until then. That he touched me right now out of his own will obviously didn't count, as hell didn't break loose around me. I tried not to move, watching the flashes the LEDs produced, and listened to his heartbeat as I would have listened to the ticking of a clock. Some sounds tended to make me dizzy and tranced, but I liked that state of mind, loved it, longed for it. My way out of the steadily approaching dark thoughts I didn't seem to be able to get rid of, ever. My own, personal subspace, in which every hurt I had, every pain that kept me awake, and every fear that made my heart thud faster were my treasures, and not a burden laid on me by him.

Pain was something I had in masses. Right there, on this bed, my cheekbone hurt, the one he had broken with a stun-baton after I had told him that I'd leave for good. My shoulders and the muscles of my arms hurt, where he had wrestled me to the ground and used electricity to stun my extremities so I couldn't run away. My breast hurt, where his leatherbelt had cracked onto my skin, leaving angry red marks that showed his trace of fury with throbbing perfection. My Back hurt, where fingernails had left marks so deep they had filled with blood right after I had run, deep enough that he had had the chance to scratch of the crusts after he'd brought me back.
Every time he moved the burning pains seeped through my dizzyness and right into my brain, making me blink out of my trance, stopping me from falling asleep. His arm hung over my side, fingers twitching against my stomach as he seemed to strangle something in his dreams, and I lay there, wrapped in his scent, heartbeat and the low vibrations of tech around me, and smiled.

I'd definitely wake him with a blowjob. I'd definitely drink his juices and lick his crotch until he'd make grunting sounds and told me to stop. I'd taste his cum, his sweat, his bodyheat without ever using my hands, and then I'd wrap myself into his mumbling words of praise for the done deed.
He'd said he'd use me against the wall until I cried for mercy, and until the skin over my hipbones would be scratched bloody from the sandstone, if I behaved the whole day. Oh, I'd be sooo good when he'd wake. My best behavior. And a very perfect morning-blow. If any of the friends I'd made in the meantime would see me like that, they'd fall into shock.
Oh vanity, how deep thou'd fallen!