I don’t like being a moisture farmer. I suppose it’s my age. On this planet, at least around here, most of the young people are eager to get away before it’s too late. Too late meaning that time slips by before you know it, and then one day you wake up to the fact you’re not going anywhere. Then it’s what? Inherit the dusty, parched plots of land that stretch away as far as the eye can see? A few sun baked buildings up top, but living under the surface just to escape the sand storms and heat?

I know it’s a narrow window. If you’re not out of here by the age of twenty five, you never will be. The trick is, once you’re old enough. you have to know when to start working for yourself and you also have to start establishing your independence to do so. Some families won’t lift a finger to help you, others will sabotage your efforts, and some know you’ll never be able to escape no matter how much you scrape, scramble and save, so not everyone manages it. There are many different paths that all lead to the same dead end, and it looms over us young folk like a constant terror the older we get.

For my own sake, I’m twenty one and it’s looking pretty grim. What I have socked away, and what extra work and money I struggle to find, doesn’t seem like it will be enough. My family isn’t exactly impeding my efforts, but neither are they going out of their way to help, and sadly some of my money is called upon for repairs and to make up for losses in the crop as time goes on.

And that’s it. A desperate race against being consigned to a generational go-nowhere. I could go on about it, but I don’t want to. Like I usually spend my days, I would rather find some kind of distraction than think about my present state of affairs. But guess what? That’s almost as hard to do as saving enough money to break away on your own. When the nearest neighbor can only be reached by landspeeder, and the farms stretch out for hundreds of miles in every direction, what is there to do? Girls? You want to talk about girls? Didn’t you just hear me? I know of two girls around my age and they’re caught up in the same sorry scramble of moisture farming as I am. When is there time and or opportunity to even see a girl, much less have her be your girlfriend? And we don’t want to talk about the arranged marriages among the water clans.

The thing is, I’m bored zipping around the dunes with my droid and hunting rifle. I had enough of that as a teen. When it’s the only entertainment, it gets old fast, and like most other guys my age, the very idea of women grows in our minds so much, a day may come when you decide to actually stay on at home for the fact that some day you’re guaranteed a wife. That’s something at least, right? Wrong. The girls have a harder time getting away than the boys, and when they’re palmed off as wives, they’re usually so bitter and hateful over it, they take it out on their husbands. No thank you.

So what do I do about girls? Well, the usual I guess. There’s some old, grainy downloads that have made the rounds among us farm boys for decades. Brought back from the space port by someone ages ago, showing the same cheap women in the same cheap outfits, posing all trashy and the like. Then you just find a rock, haul out the pic slate your friend borrowed you, and yank one off to give some of the moisture you’ve taken back out onto the sand. That gets old, too. Fast. Even if you keep a few favorite pics. Beyond that though, what is there? And today, as I sat in the shade of a large rock, my speeder rocking on it’s anti-grav plates a little as I yanked at my cock, it just wasn’t enough. I couldn’t even get excited enough to come close to cumming, but I was horny enough to stay hard, and eventually I played with my dick just for the sake of it feeling good. After a time I sighed, tucked it away so it would go down on it’s own, and hit the power convertor.

I was so bored, I could have screamed it at the top of my lungs, but I didn’t. I was too bored and disappointed even for that. I just turned around and headed home.

Home, to my surprise, was a different story.

ooo

My surprise were Jawas. They’re seen pretty infrequently when it comes to that, and not at all when they don’t wish to be, but they do make the rounds among the farms just when things seem to be their most boring. Perhaps they capitalize on that very thing. An innate sense of timing that’s good for business since even the older folks will perk up at a chance for some change in the routine. A time for a little barter and trade. I didn’t care about any of that, though, once I hopped out of my speeder and saw the Jawa females. They’re rare to be seen, among a people already rare to be seen, and to add one surprise on top of the other, there were several of them. Was this particular Jawa family leader some kind of stud out among the dunes? Did he have an above average amount of daughters or something? Who knows? But there he was, haggling over droids and parts with my uncle, oblivious to anything except the purse my uncle had on him. My aunts were likewise distracted with the heavily robbed Jawa mother, all of them going over the smaller gadgets and appliances meant for homesteads. Likewise, the young Jawa males were pouring over their Sandcrawler with rags and wrenches and oil cans during this stop, noticing nothing else…but as for the young Jawa women? They had nothing to do but stand around. We noticed each other immediately.

Oh yes, I noticed them. Who wouldn’t? Young Jawa females went around with a minimum of dress. At least for Jawas. Their robes were cut to show, and in my present state of frustrated arousal, from here they looked yummy. Who knows what rules govern Jawa culture? They seem to make nothing of the fact the girls are practically naked by their standards. Gone are the full body robes. What’s left, of course, is the usual hooded and hidden upper features, with their graceful arms still being fully sleeved, but right below those perky little breasts, the fabric is cut away to show off their alluring stomachs and narrow waists, which leads your eyes down to those shapely rear ends and hips that are wrapped in what amounts to nothing but a rag of a skirt. That skirt is cut as high on the thigh as the top is to their tits, showing a hint of bare ass as they either walk around or stand.