Chapter 1: Vacation Getaway!
The air in the Senate building’s rooftop garden was usually one of whispered politics and clinking ceremonial glasses. Today, it smelled of sunscreen and spilled fruit juice.
A datapad, displaying the official Council reassignment roster, was passed from hand to hand. A silent beat stretched, then snapped.
“A month?” Rey Skywalker blurted, her scavenger’s instincts deeply suspicious of such bounty. “That can’t be right.”
Barriss Offee, pale green fingers tracing the screen, allowed a rare, wide smile. “It is mathematically verified. No missions, no hearings, no diplomatic escorts for thirty standard days.”
The chaos that followed was quiet at first, a disbelieving hum, then it erupted. A cheer went up, unintentionally launched by Bultar Swan, who immediately looked embarrassed at her own outburst. A stray copy of the Jedi Times, abandoned on a bench, was levitated by an unseen Force and deposited squarely into the lap of a dozing Councillor, who sputtered awake.
It was Senator Mon Mothma, elegant in robes of white and gold, who provided the structure their sudden freedom lacked. “Such a collective windfall demands proper marking,” she said, her voice cutting through the happy din. “Padmé and I were just discussing the summer homes in Naboo’s Lake Country. They are… sitting empty.”
Padmé Amidala’s eyes, warm and mischievous, swept over the group of Jedi. “It would be a shame to waste them. And the beaches there are exceptionally quiet. Perfect for… uninterrupted relaxation.”
The offer hung in the air for less than a second before being met with a unified, enthusiastic clamor. Plans were made in a noisy, overlapping rush. Departure was set for the next morning.
The Naboo sun was a gentle, golden warmth, so different from Jakku’s brutal glare or Coruscant’s artificial glow. The path from the villa to the beach was a winding stone trail flanked by blooming whisper-lilies and bubbling streams. The group had broken into a loose, chatting convoy.
Charlie walked in the middle of the pack, feeling the pleasant weight of his travel pack and the lighter, unfamiliar weight of freedom. At eighteen, a month felt like a lifetime. Shaak Ti, his master, walked ahead, her long montrals swaying gently, deep in conversation with Luminara Unduli.
“It’s the fabric, I’m certain of it,” Luminara said, her serene voice carrying on the mild breeze. “The blend they use for standard-issue undergarments is entirely impractical for any climate above temperate.”
Shaak Ti’s laugh was a soft, rolling sound. “You speak the truth, my friend. The way it binds after any sustained movement. It becomes a deliberate distraction.”
“A tactical liability,” Luminara agreed, nodding sagely. “One is constantly… re-adjusting.”
Speaking of adjustments, their eyes, almost in unison, drifted ahead to where Aayla Secura walked. The blue-skinned Twi’lek was animatedly describing a combat maneuver to Ahsoka Tano, her lithe body moving with expressive grace. The casual low-rise of her linen trousers had slipped, revealing not just a sliver of tanned back, but the distinct, frilly elastic waistband of something mint green.
A look passed between the two Jedi Masters. It was not a look of Council deliberation. It was a look of pure, silent opportunity.
Luminara’s fingers twitched ever so slightly. Shaak Ti’s gaze focused.
Aayla mid-sentence, faltered. “—and then you pivot on the left fooh!” She stiffened. A faint, confused blush tinged her blue cheeks. She took another step. Her stride hitched, minutely. The waistband of her cute green underwear was now visibly rising, being drawn upward by an invisible, inexorable hand.
“Ahsoka, do you feel a… draft?” Aayla asked, her voice strained.
Ahsoka, spotting the rising fabric and the two perfectly innocent-looking Masters behind them, bit her lip to stop a giggle. “Nope. No draft.”
The wedgie was deliberate and slow, a masterclass in controlled Force application. Aayla tried to walk normally, but every step pulled the fabric tighter. She began to do a subtle, sidling wiggle, her graceful composure cracking into flustered embarrassment.
Further back, this entire silent drama was observed by two other keen sets of eyes.
Padmé and Mon Mothma flanked Charlie, asking him polite questions about his training. His attention, however, was snagged by the spectacle of a supremely confident Jedi Knight gradually being undone by her own underwear.
“Master Secura seems… uncomfortable,” Charlie noted, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Indeed,” Mon said, her tone scholarly. “A classic example of a lateral tension imbalance.”
Padmé’s gaze flicked from Aayla’s plight to Charlie, then to Mon. A silent, understanding sparked between the two women. It was a spark of cosmic fairness, of playful equity. If a Jedi was being pranked, then a Padawan should surely share in the lesson.
Charlie, oblivious, was still watching Aayla. “Think she’ll figure it out?”
“Oh, I’m certain she’s figuring it out right now,” Padmé said, her voice sweet.
In one fluid, synchronized motion, they acted. It wasn’t the Force. It was simpler, more direct. Mon, on his left, and Padmé, on his right, casually slipped their hands into the loose back of his swim trunks.
Charlie’s eyes went wide. “Hey, what—”
His sentence ended in a soft, choked yelp as four feminine fingers found the leg holes of his boxers. There was a brief, tactical pause for grip adjustment.
Then they hoisted.
The effect was immediate and profound. Charlie was lifted onto the very tips of his toes by the sudden, biting pressure of his own underwear tunneling deep into uncharted territory. A comical, pained “Oof!” escaped him.
“A simple demonstration of cause and effect, Padawan,” Mon explained calmly, as if lecturing in the Senate. “Or perhaps a lesson in observational awareness.”
“You were distracted by Master Secura’s predicament,” Padmé added, her laughter like bells. “You failed to guard your own flank.”
Giggling, they began walking forward again. And since they had not relinquished their grips, Charlie had no choice but to walk with them. Except walking was impossible. Each step they took translated into a gentle, swinging motion for him, his feet barely scraping the stone path. He hung suspended between them, a human pendulum swung by the twin anchors of his own violently wedgied underwear.
“This is… this is undignified!” he managed to squeak, which only made them laugh harder.
Ahead, Aayla had finally stopped to forcefully, and with great embarrassment, yank her underwear free. She turned, a mock-furious glare on her face, ready to accuse the Masters. The sight that met her eyes made her anger dissolve into open-mouthed laughter.
The rest of the group, hearing the commotion, turned. Rey snorted, covering her mouth. Barriss’s deadpan delivery cut through the laughter, “A symmetrical counter-prank. Elegant.” Bultar Swan howled, pointing. Ahsoka doubled over, her montrals shaking.
Shaak Ti and Luminara observed the approaching trio, their faces the picture of serene Masterly approval. “See?” Luminara said, leaning toward Shaak Ti. “A shared experience builds camaraderie.”
“A most… uplifting technique,” Shaak Ti agreed, her warm eyes crinkling at the corners.
And so the procession reached the dazzling white sand of the Naboo beach, the first glimpse of the glittering azure lake stretching before them, with Charlie still swinging gently between the two smiling women, his protests lost in the warm breeze and the sound of crashing waves.
And so the procession reached the dazzling white sand of the Naboo beach, the first glimpse of the glittering azure lake stretching before them, with Charlie still swinging gently between the two smiling women, his protests lost in the warm breeze and the sound of crashing waves.
“Release the prisoner,” Mon Mothma declared with mock solemnity, and they let go in unison.
Charlie dropped the few inches to the sand, landing with a soft crunch and immediately performing a frantic, one-legged dance to undo the catastrophic wedgie. “That was… a war crime!” he sputtered, his face flushed.
“It was a diplomatic intervention,” Padmé corrected, already shrugging off her lightweight robe to reveal a sleek, black one-piece swimsuit that was both stylish and subtly commanding. “You were a casualty of policy.”
The beach was idyllic, a crescent of perfect sand edged with lush greenery. A few other Naboo citizens dotted the shoreline, but it was mercifully quiet. The group claimed a wide section, dropping bags and towels in a loose circle.
The swimwear transformation began, a silent reveal of personalities. Rey, practical and bold, wore a sturdy two-piece of sun-faded grey fabric, the scars on her forearms and the lean muscle of her stomach fully visible. She looked ready to work, not lounge. Barriss, ever precise, had a modest but elegant tankini in a deep forest green that mirrored her tattoos. Bultar Swan’s was aggressively sporty—a high-necked, racing-back suit in Corellian crimson.
Aayla Secura, having recovered her composure, unveiled her choice: a daring, sapphire-blue bikini that contrasted stunningly with her skin. “What?” she said to the raised eyebrows, a hand on her hip. “We’re off-duty. The Code says nothing about halter ties.”
Depa Billaba’s was a sophisticated charcoal one-piece with a high leg, elegant and severe. Shaak Ti wore a simple, wrap-style suit in a warm terracotta that complimented her skin tones, exuding a calm, maternal confidence.
Mon Mothma, having shed her senatorial robes, stood revealed in a tasteful dark blue maillot with a sheer sarong knotted at her hips. It was classic, regal. “Much better,” she sighed, wiggling her toes in the sand.
Ahsoka Tano was last, having been rummaging in her bag. She stood up, and a collective smirk went around. Her suit was a vibrant, two-piece orange that almost matched her skin, with a skirted bottom. “It was a gift!” she insisted, seeing the looks.
“From a blind Tusken Raider?” Charlie quipped, having finally rectified his own situation.
Ahsoka’s eyes narrowed. “You’re one to talk, Wedgie-boy. Those trunks are so loud they’re violating local noise ordinances.” He was wearing garishly patterned shorts covered in cartoonish blurrg faces.
The tension was playful, a spark looking for kindling. Everyone was settling—Rey laying out a towel, Barriss applying sunscreen with methodical care, Aayla stretching like a loth-cat in the sun.
Luminara Unduli, standing near the water’s edge, gazed out at the lake. She wore a conservative but beautiful emerald green one-piece with a high back, the cut emphasizing her dignified posture. She looked every inch the serene Master, a picture of composure against the beautiful backdrop.
Ahsoka glanced at Barriss, her best friend and partner in crime. A silent, mischievous conversation passed between them in a glance and a twitch of a smile. Barriss gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Master Unduli!” Ahsoka called out, her voice bright and innocent. “Does the water feel cold?”
Luminara turned, a gentle smile on her tattooed face. “It is quite pleasant, Padawan Tano. A refreshing—“
Ahsoka moved. It wasn’t a Force-assisted move, just the natural, predatory speed of a Togruta used to hunting in the wilds. She closed the distance in three quick, silent steps on the soft sand.
Her hand shot out, not at Luminara, but at the back of her master’s swimsuit. Her fingers found the critical point where the halter strap met the high neckline. With a deft, practiced flick—honed on countless unsuspecting younglings in the Temple showers—Ahsoka pulled down and forward.
The sturdy fabric resisted for a fraction of a second, then gave. The top of Luminara’s swimsuit was tugged down several inches in the front, suddenly and decisively.
The top of Luminara’s swimsuit was tugged down several inches in the front, suddenly and decisively. The fabric, stretched beyond its intent, slipped entirely free of her chest.
For a full second, there was only the sound of the lapping lake and a distant speeder. Luminara Unduli, Jedi Master, stood perfectly still. The sun warmed her bare skin. Her breasts, full and heavy, were now completely exposed to the open air and the stunned eyes of her colleagues.
A deep, verdant blush spread across her cheeks and down her neck, clashing with her green skin. But her expression wasn’t one of horror. Her lips, after a moment of parted surprise, curled into a wide, wicked grin. She didn’t scramble to cover up. Instead, she let everyone have a good, long look.
Then she moved.
Her hand shot out, not to her own top, but to Ahsoka’s. The younger Togruta was frozen in a mix of triumph and dawning alarm. Luminara’s fingers caught the bottom edge of Ahsoka’s orange bikini top. With a sharp, practiced yank, she pulled it straight up and over Ahsoka’s head, pinning the girl’s arms briefly before the fabric came free.
Ahsoka yelped, a short, surprised sound. Her chest was now bare, her breasts—a perky, smaller end of a C-cup—exposed to the same scrutiny. She instinctively hunched her shoulders, her blue eyes wide.
Luminara finally reached down and casually pulled her own suit back into place, settling her breasts back into the emerald fabric. She then held up Ahsoka’s discarded top, dangling it from one finger like a conquered banner.
“Padawan Tano,” Luminara said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “If your ‘itty bitty titty’ committee wanted a viewing of a big girl’s breasts, you could have just asked. Formal request forms are available from the archive. Much less… dramatic.”
The blush that erupted on Ahsoka’s face was volcanic. It turned her orange skin a deep, humiliated coral, spreading from her cheeks down to her chest. She stood there, arms now crossed over her chest, looking utterly defeated. A choked laugh escaped from where Rey was sitting, quickly muffled by a towel. Barriss had her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Charlie’s jaw was slightly agape, his eyes flicking between the two Jedi, unsure where to look but undeniably enjoying the view.
“I… Master, I’m sorry,” Ahsoka stammered, the words tumbling out. “That was… okay, you got me back pretty good. More than good.” She uncrossed one arm to make a vague, surrendering gesture.
“Hmm,” Luminara hummed, stepping closer. She shook out the orange bikini top. “Arms up.”
Flushing even deeper, Ahsoka obeyed, raising her arms overhead. Luminara carefully slipped the top back down over Ahsoka’s head, guiding it over her montrals, and pulled it into place over her perky chest. She took a moment to adjust the fit, her hands smoothing the fabric.
Then, with a firm, deliberate motion, she cupped both of Ahsoka’s breasts in her hands and gave them a solid, affirming squeeze. Ahsoka squeaked.
“These are perfectly fine breasts, Ahsoka,” Luminara stated, her tone shifting from teasing to something warm and firm. “No reason to hide them. No reason to be jealous of anyone else’s. Be proud of them. They’re perfect just the way they are.”
She gave one final, almost motherly pat before releasing her. Ahsoka stood there, her top restored but her dignity still in tatters, her face a canvas of acute embarrassment and a strange, grudging appreciation.
The moment of pure, unabashed spectacle hung in the air, a new benchmark set for the holiday’s chaos. It was Shaak Ti who broke the serene silence that followed, clapping her hands together once, the sound sharp against the natural backdrop.
“Excellent! The ice is officially broken,” she announced, her smile knowing. “Now, who’s actually going in the water?”
“Now, who’s actually going in the water?”
Shaak Ti’s question was the spark. Aayla, seeking redemption from her exposure, was the first to sprint, her bare feet kicking up sand as she launched herself into the glistening lake with a triumphant shout. The spell of awkwardness shattered into action.
Rey and Ahsoka followed, a blur of limbs and laughter, chasing after her. Barriss walked in with more dignity, sighing as the cool water hit her ankles. Bultar Swan challenged Depa Billaba to a race to the floating dock twenty meters out, and they plunged in side-by-side with competitive grins. Luminara waded in slowly, smiling as the water soothed her skin.
The beach emptied of its colorful occupants, the air now filled with splashes and distant shouts. The quiet was left to the rustling leaves and the gentle lap of the water.
Charlie lingered by the towels, pretending to adjust the strap on his bag. His eyes tracked Padmé, who had hung back, shaking sand from her robe. She glanced at the water, then towards a small, private thicket of flowering reeds and smooth boulders that created a natural screen at the edge of their cove.
Perfect.
He waited until she’d gathered her things and slipped into the greenery. He gave it a three-count, heart thumping a dull rhythm against his ribs, then followed, moving with an exaggerated stealth that felt ridiculous even to him.
The reeds were dense, their sweet smell overpowering. He found a gap between two mossy rocks, a narrow sightline into a small, sandy clearing. He dropped to a crouch, his breath shallow.
Padmé stood with her back to him, the sheer sarong already pooled at her feet. She unhooked the clasp at the back of her neck. The sleek black fabric of her one-piece slackened. With a graceful shrug of her shoulders, she peeled the suit down her torso, letting it fall forward.
She stepped out of it, completely nude.
The sun dappled through the leaves, painting gold coins on the smooth, olive skin of her back, the elegant taper of her spine, the perfect, heart-shaped curve of her rear. She bent to pick up the new suit, and Charlie’s mouth went dry. Every movement was unconscious grace. She shook out the cute black skirted one-piece—it was frilled, playful—and stepped into it, drawing the fabric up over her long legs, over her hips, smoothing it over her flat stomach.
She was just threading her arms through the straps when a voice, smooth as chilled wine, spoke from directly behind Charlie’s right ear.
“The view is rather captivating, isn’t it?”
He jerked, his head slamming back against the rock with a soft thud. Mon Mothma stood over him, having approached in utter silence. She was still in her dark blue maillot and sarong, a ghost in the greenery. Her expression was unreadable—not angry, not amused. Observant.
She placed a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him crouched, and looked past him through the gap. Her eyes traced the same lines his had. Padmé was pulling the suit into place, settling her breasts into the cups, giving a little shimmy to adjust the fit.
Charlie was frozen, a rabbit in a snare. His brain screamed at him to run, to apologize, but his body was locked in place by shame and a terrifying, swelling thrill. Mon’s hand was a brand on his shoulder.
His own hand, acting on a desperate, autonomic impulse, crept toward the waistband of his board shorts.
Mon watched Padmé, then slowly looked down at Charlie. She watched his fingers curl over the garish fabric. She watched the telltale, frantic movement of his wrist.
She let it continue for five agonizing seconds. Then she leaned down again.
“I believe you’re caught red-handed, young man,” she whispered, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.
He snatched his hand away as if burned, scrambling to stand, but her grip tightened, forcing him to stay put. He looked up at her, his face a masterpiece of panic.
Mon finally looked at him directly. Her gaze was cool, knowing. It traveled from his horrified eyes, down to the very obvious, straining bulge in his shorts, and back up. A slow, utterly scandalous smile touched her lips.
“My, my,” she murmured. “It seems the Senator isn’t the only one who needed a change.”