Chapter 10: The Boutique Humiliation
The air inside Belle-12’s boutique was cool and carried the faint, clean scent of starch and jasmine. Sunlight streamed through high, arched windows, painting liquid gold across bolts of fabric piled like fallen rainbows. Padmé, her black swimsuit sleek against her skin, led Charlie past displays of ornate kimonos and gauzy wraps, her fingers still tingling from the playful swat she’d delivered on the beach.
“We need to get you something proper,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the serene space. “Can’t have you borrowing towels all week.”
An elderly human woman with kind eyes and silver hair swept into a bun emerged from behind a curtain. “Welcome. Can I help you find something?”
“We’re looking for swimwear for him,” Padmé said, gesturing to Charlie with a smile.
The shopkeeper’s expression softened into immediate apology. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. We are a ladies’ boutique primarily. We cleared out our limited men’s stock just yesterday for a bulk order. There’s nothing left.”
Padmé’s disappointment lasted only a second. Her gaze drifted, scanning the vibrant racks, and then a slow, wicked smile curved her lips. It was the same smile she wore during senate debates just before dismantling an opponent’s argument. Charlie felt a familiar, thrilling dread pool in his stomach.
“Nothing at all?” Padmé asked, her tone now one of false sympathy.
“Only our ladies’ collection, I’m afraid,” the shopkeeper said, gesturing helplessly.
“Well,” Padmé said, drawing the word out. She began to browse with purpose, her fingers trailing over ruffled bottoms and sparkling tops. Then she stopped. She plucked a single item from a rack. It was a bikini bottom, impossibly small. The fabric was a stark white, crisscrossed by two bold, crimson stripes that ran diagonally over where the hips would be. She held it up, pinching the slender strings between her thumb and forefinger, her head tilted in mock contemplation.
“It’s this,” she announced, her eyes gleaming with unmasked mischief, “or nothing, Charlie.”
Charlie’s face flooded with heat. “You’re kidding. Padmé, that’s not even clothing. That’s a suggestion.”
“The suggestion is that you’ll be decently covered. Mostly.” She tossed it to him. The soft fabric landed against his chest. “Go on. The changing curtain is right there. Or I can help you here.”
The challenge hung in the air, mingling with the jasmine scent. He saw the playful dare in her brown eyes, the same look she’d given him before his ill-fated attempt to sneak a slurp-fly into her iced tea the day before. With a grumble that lacked all conviction, he shuffled behind the flimsy, flower-printed curtain.
The changing space was close and dim. He shucked his borrowed shorts, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. The bikini bottom was even smaller in his hands. The waistband was a narrow elastic, the sides mere strings. He stepped into it, pulled it up, and spent a minute futilely trying to arrange himself. The white fabric strained, the red stripes sitting taut and accusing over his hipbones. It covered the essentials, but only just, leaving his lower abdomen and most of his thighs completely bare. The back was a mere scrap, a whispered promise of coverage. He took a steadying breath and pushed the curtain aside.
Padmé’s hands flew to her mouth, but not before a burst of laughter escaped. Her eyes watered instantly. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, it’s perfect.”
The shopkeeper politely turned her attention to rearranging a stack of sarongs, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Stop laughing,” Charlie muttered, though a grin was fighting its way onto his own face. The sheer absurdity of it was contagious.
“I’m not laughing, I’m appreciating!” Padmé insisted, composing herself into a stern-faced critic. She circled him. “The cut is very… daring. Highlights the legs. Now, let’s see the walk. Hand on hip. Yes, like that.”
Feeling exposed and ridiculous, Charlie placed a hand on his hip, standing with one leg slightly bent.
“More pout,” Padmé instructed, biting her own lip to keep from giggling. “Think ‘mysterious lake siren.’”
He attempted a sultry pout, which made his lips tremble with suppressed laughter.
“Yes, yes, you’re working it!” Padmé clapped her hands softly. “Now give me a twirl. A slow, graceful twirl.”
Charlie, despite himself, giggled—a short, breathy sound. He extended his arms slightly and turned in a slow circle, the tiny fabric doing nothing to mitigate the breeze on his skin. The mirror on the opposite wall caught his reflection, and the sight of himself, tall and lanky clad in the scandalous white and red, sent a new wave of hilarious shame through him.
Padmé saw his glance. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the full-length mirror nestled between two racks. “Here. Now, we practice the real poses. This is a feminine boutique, so we need feminine energy.” She stood behind him, her reflection smiling over his shoulder. “Hand behind your head. Look at your own eyes in the mirror. Smile, but coyly. Like you know a secret.”
Charlie obeyed, sliding a hand behind his head, affecting a tilted posture. He tried a coy smile. It looked more like a grimace.
“Softer,” Padmé whispered, her breath near his ear. “You’re not facing down a Hutt. You’re enticing a Naboo noble.”
Something in her tone, a shift from pure teasing to something lower, more intimate, caught him. He met her gaze in the mirror. Her expression was fond, heated, challenging. Caught up in her glee and that look, he leaned into the bit. He shifted his weight, popping one hip, letting the coy smile become real and playful. He batted his eyelashes exaggeratedly at his own reflection, then pursed his lips and blew a kiss.
Padmé lost it. She folded forward, a hand on her stomach, laughing so hard she was silent for a moment. “Oh,” she finally wheezed, straightening up and wiping her eyes. “You’re a natural! Maybe we should buy two pairs. You know, for variety.”
“In your dreams, Senator,” he shot back, his voice light. He turned from the mirror and flashed her a very rude, very familiar hand gesture.
Her laughter softened into a knowing smirk. In one fluid motion, she stepped forward and brought her palm down in a sharp, stinging swat right across the scant fabric covering his left cheek. The sound was a crisp pop in the quiet boutique.
The sting was bright and sudden. Charlie yelped, more from surprise than pain, and stumbled forward a step, right into a tower of neatly folded, rainbow-colored scarves. They cascaded around him in a silken avalanche.
As the soft fabrics slithered to the floor, he straightened up. He turned to face her, his cheeks flushed, his breathing slightly quickened. The place where her hand had landed throbbed warmly. He saw her watching him, her head tilted, waiting for his reaction—for the protest, the indignant squawk.
Instead, Charlie bit his lower lip. His eyes, holding hers, brightened with a blend of embarrassment and sissy glee. Slowly, deliberately, he arched his back, pushing the sore, barely-covered curve of his bottom out toward her in a silent, blatant request for more.
The playful light in Padmé’s eyes intensified, igniting into mirthful intent. She weighed up her options tauntingly.
The shopkeeper cleared her throat softly from behind the main counter. “Will you be taking the item, then?”
“I think we—” Padmé began, her smile widening as she watched Charlie’s impudent posture.
Her words were cut off as a thin, strong hand shot out and seized Charlie by the earlobe. It was the shopkeeper, her kindly demeanor evaporated, replaced by a stern, matronly authority. Her grip was precise and unyielding, applying just enough pressure to pull him onto his tiptoes. “And what,” she hissed, her voice low and sharp as a blade, “do you think you’re doing, presenting yourself like a common street flirt in my establishment?”
Charlie yelped, more in shock than pain. “Hey! Let go!”
“I’ve been watching your little performance,” the old woman continued, steering him away from the scarves with a firm tug on his ear. Her eyes, now flinty, swept over the minimal white fabric. “The posing, the prancing, the cheek. This isn’t a cantina stage. That sort of slutty behavior has consequences, young man. You’ve earned yourself a sore rump.”
The reality of the situation crashed into Charlie. This sweet-looking grandmother wasn’t just scolding. He saw the resolve in the set of her jaw, the purposeful glance toward a wooden counter where a long, polished cooking spoon rested beside a ledger. “You can’t!” he blurted, trying to twist away, but her grip was impossibly firm. “I’m a buying customer! You can’t touch a customer!”
His wide, pleading eyes found Padmé. He expected her to laugh, to call it off, to play the senator and intervene. Instead, she leaned back against a display of folded linen, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in fascinating curiosity. A delighted, anticipatory smile played on her lips. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug.
Betrayal, hot and sharp, mixed with a strange, squirmy thrill in his gut. “Padmé! Tell her!”
“He’s technically not a customer until he pays for that scrap he’s wearing,” Padmé observed mildly, her voice a study in amused neutrality. “And he did make quite a mess of your scarves.”
“It’s not fair!” Charlie shouted, his voice climbing into a whine. He stomped his bare foot on the polished stone floor, a petulant, childish sound. “This is assault!”
“This is decorum,” the shopkeeper corrected. In one fluid motion, she released his ear and snatched up the wooden spoon. It was long, pale oak, worn smooth from use. Before he could bolt, her other hand clamped onto his wrist. “And you, my lad, are in drastic need of a lesson in it. Over you go.”
He fought. He tried to plant his feet, to pull his arm free, but she moved with a surprising, wiry strength, leveraging his own momentum to bend him forward. The counter’s edge met his hips, forcing his upper body down. The silky scarves beneath his cheek smelled of lavender. “Stop! You can’t do this! I’m a Jedi Padawan!”
“Right now,” the woman said, her tone dry as dust, “you’re a brat who needs his bottom blistered.” She flicked the spoon through the air once, testing its weight.
The first swat landed with a terrible, crisp CRACK that seemed to echo off the high ceilings. It wasn’t the playful slap Padmé had delivered; this was a focused, stinging impact that burned through the flimsy fabric and set his entire left cheek alight. Charlie gasped, a sharp inhale of pure shock.
“Ow! Damn it!”
CRACK! The second strike mirrored the first on the opposite side, balancing the fire. He kicked out involuntarily, his heel connecting with nothing but air. “Quit it! That hurts!”
“The point is perception, boy,” the shopkeeper stated calmly, as if discussing fabric weave. CRACK! CRACK! Two more swift, measured blows fell, lower now, on the tender sit-spots. The pain was a bright, singing ache, building and spreading. His complaints dissolved into helpless yelps. “You perceive the consequences of lewd public display.”
Tears of frustration, not just pain, prickled at his eyes. He wriggled, but her hand on his back was an iron weight. He was trapped, exposed, the ridiculous bikini bottom offering no protection at all. The wooden spoon rose and fell in a relentless, rhythmic tattoo. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK-CRACK!
A desperate, stupid strategy flickered in his mind. It had sometimes worked, in a twisted way, with Shaak Ti when he was truly in for it. If politeness and submission were what authority wanted, maybe he could fast-track this.
“Okay! Okay!” he yelped, his voice strained. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for the… the slutty behaviour!”
The spoon paused, hovering. “And?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Thank you! Thank you for the spanking!”
CRACK! A swat, harder than the last, made him jump. “You’re not convincing anyone.”
“Thank you!” he yelped again, immediately after the next stinging impact. CRACK! “Thank you!” CRACK! “Thank you!” He chanted it, a breathless, pained chorus after each new bolt of fire, hoping the absurd gratitude would satisfy her and end this torment.
Instead, he heard a low, quiet chuckle from above him. The rhythm broke. The next few swats came in unpredictable clusters—two quick ones, a pause, then three in rapid succession on the same throbbing spot. He lost the script, his forced thank-yous fragmenting into a mix of genuine gratitude and pained squeaks. “Thankyou-OW! Th-thank you! YEE! Thank you!”
It was a humiliating symphony of thanks and yelps, and he was its unwilling conductor. He dared to turn his head slightly. Padmé hadn’t moved. She watched, one hand covering her mouth, but her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter, her eyes bright with absolute delight.
The old lady was an artist. She found every inch of his exposed skin, from the upper crests down to the tops of his thighs, varying the intensity so he could never brace for the next one. Just when he thought it might be easing, a series of swift, lighter taps would rain down, a maddening prelude to another solid, burning THWACK that stole his breath.
Finally, after what felt like an age, she assembled a finale. Four devastating, deliberate strikes, each with a slight wind-up, landed in the same concentrated, already-tender area. WHAP. WHAP.WHAP. WHAP.
Charlie slumped over the counter, breathless, his backside a unified map of smarting, throbbing heat. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by his ragged breathing and the faint rustle of fabric as the shopkeeper laid the spoon down with a soft clack.
She released his wrist. “Up you get.”
He pushed himself up, movements tender and careful. His face was flushed, tear-streaked. He couldn’t bring himself to look at either woman, staring instead at the scattered scarves around his feet.
The shopkeeper smoothed her apron. She turned to Padmé, her stern expression melting back into that initial, kindly smile, as if she’d just finished pricing a scarf. “For you, my dear, no charge. The bikini is a gift.”
Padmé’s eyebrows rose. “That’s very generous. Thank you.”
“It’s an investment,” the old woman said, her eyes glinting as she glanced back at Charlie, who was gingerly rubbing his backside. “Just bring this one back the next time he needs a reminder. The lesson is free with every visit.”
Padmé’s smile didn’t fade, but it transformed. The delight hardened into something sharper, a glint of polished obsidian. Her eyes, warm and laughing a moment before, cooled as they fixed on the shopkeeper’s smug, satisfied face. The woman had turned back to her ledger, the wooden spoon resting beside it like a scepter.
“An investment,” Padmé repeated, her voice quiet, melodic, and utterly dangerous. “How very entrepreneurial of you.”
Charlie, still sniffling and rubbing his throbbing backside, froze. He recognized that tone. It was the voice she used in the senate right before she dismantled a corrupt appropriations bill.
The shopkeeper glanced up, sensing the shift in the air. “I find consistent reinforcement works best with unruly youths.”
“Do you.” Padmé didn’t ask. She stated. She pushed off from the linen display and took two slow, deliberate steps forward. The soft slap of her bare feet on the stone floor was the only sound. “And what works for unruly, presumptuous civilians who lay hands on a Jedi? Or, for that matter, on the companion of a sitting senator?”
The woman’s kindly mask slipped entirely, revealing a nervous frown. “I was merely administering a common–”
“You administered a beating,” Padmé cut in, her voice like ice. “Without consent, without jurisdiction, and with a shocking amount of pleasure in your work.” She stopped directly before the counter, her gaze dropping to the spoon. “You enjoyed it. I could see it in your eyes. You reveled in the power.”
“He was behaving like a little slut!” the shopkeeper retorted, her own voice rising in defensive indignation.
“His behavior is for his Master to correct, or for me to play with,” Padmé said, each word a precise, measured blow. “Not for you. You overstepped. You abused your position. You took a simple, silly game and turned it into a genuine humiliation for your own amusement.” She leaned forward, palms flat on the counter. “That, madam, is a crime against my friend. And I take such crimes very, very personally.”
Before the shopkeeper could form a reply, Padmé moved. It was not a Jedi’s move, but a street-smart one, fast and efficient. Her right hand shot out, not for the spoon, but to seize the woman’s wrist. Her left hand snagged the front of the woman’s embroidered apron, pulling her forward and off-balance across the counter with a surprising, strong yank.
“What are you doing? Unhand me!” the shopkeeper squawked, her feet scrambling for purchase on the floor.
“Teaching a lesson in proportionality,” Padmé said calmly. With a grunt of effort, she hauled the woman further over, until her hips were bent awkwardly over the wooden edge, her rear presented squarely toward the center of the room. The woman’s practical linen skirts were a rumpled bunch around her waist.
Charlie’s jaw hung open. The pain in his backside was forgotten, replaced by a skyrocketing heartbeat.
“You used an implement,” Padmé mused, still holding the struggling woman firmly. “That seems fair.” She snatched up the wooden spoon.
“You can’t! This is assault!” the woman shrieked, echoing Charlie’s own futile protest from minutes before.
“No,” Padmé corrected, her feminist outrage now fully weaponized, a glorious, playful fury. “This is a citizen’s arrest for the gross violation of my friend’s royal backside.” She raised the spoon high. “His buttocks are under senatorial protection.”
The spoon descended with a solid, meaty THWACK on the seat of the woman’s sensible cotton pants. It was a different sound than the crisp cracks Charlie had endured—duller, deeper.
The shopkeeper yelped, a genuinely pained, shocked sound. She kicked her legs.
THWACK!
“You presume authority you do not possess!” Padmé declared, delivering another swat.
THWACK!
“You derive pleasure from the humiliation of others!”
THWACK!
“That makes you a bully!” Each accusation was punctuated by a solid, stinging blow. The woman’s protests dissolved into sharp cries and incoherent grunts. The dignified, stern matron was gone, replaced by a red-faced, wriggling figure getting her comeuppance over her own counter.
Charlie watched, transfixed. A hot, confused storm of emotions swirled in his chest: vindication, awe, and a fresh, startling surge of attraction. Padmé was magnificent. Her arm rose and fell with righteous, athletic grace. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips set in a firm line of justice. This was the Queen of Naboo, the fierce defender, but she was doing it to spank a shopkeeper who’d spanked him.
It was the most insane, thrilling thing he’d ever seen.
After a dozen good, hard swats, Padmé paused. The shopkeeper was sobbing openly, her body gone limp over the counter. Padmé dropped the spoon with a clatter. She released the woman’s wrist and smoothed her own swimsuit.
“The lesson,” Padmé said, breathing slightly heavily, “is free with every visit. Remember that.”
She turned her back on the weeping woman. Her eyes found Charlie’s. The fiery outrage was gone, replaced by a sparkling, shared complicity. She walked to him, took his hand, and pulled him toward the door.
Out on the sun-baked path, the lake breeze kissed their skin. The normal sounds of birds and distant laughter returned. Charlie stood there, clutching the tiny scrap of fabric at his hips, his backside and his mind both abuzz.
Padmé looked him up and down, then at the boutique door. A giggle escaped her, then another, until she was laughing freely, leaning against him for support. “Oh, stars. Did that just happen?”
“You spanked the spanker,” Charlie whispered, incredulous.
“She had it coming.” Padmé wiped a tear from her eye, her laughter subsiding into a warm, satisfied grin. She looked at him, really looked at him—his flushed face, his wide eyes, the ridiculous bikini. Her expression softened. She reached out and gently took his hand again. “Come on. Let’s get you something that actually covers your cute butt. My treat.”
As they walked, Charlie was intensely aware of two things: the tender, glowing heat in his own rear, and the firm, possessive warmth of Padmé’s hand in his.