Chapter 11: The Aftermath: A Feast for the Eyes
The path from the boutique wound through the lakeside village, a meandering ribbon of smooth, sun-warmed stones bordered by overflowing planters of vibrant trumpet flowers. The scent of salt and blossoms was a balm, but it did nothing to cool the persistent, glowing heat radiating from Charlie’s backside with every step. He walked stiffly, the tiny white and red bikini bottom feeling more like a brand than clothing.
Padmé’s hand was still in his, her grip firm and proprietorial. She hummed a little Naboo folk tune, her mood one of radiant, satisfied mischief. “The look on her face,” she chuckled, giving his hand a squeeze. “Priceless. You should be thanking me.”
“I did thank you,” Charlie grumbled, though a smile tugged at his lips. “Repeatedly and at volume, if you recall.”
“That was for the spoon. This is for the justice.” She led him away from the main thoroughfare, down a narrower lane shaded by ancient, sprawling moss-trees. “There’s a little market square up here. They’ll have actual trousers. Maybe even a kilt. Something with a bit more… democratic coverage.”
“Anything,” he said with feeling, adjusting the narrow waistband for the hundredth time. The fabric had crept inward during their walk, performing a slow, inexorable wedgie. “This thing is actively trying to become my internal organ.”
Padmé laughed, the sound echoing softly off the stone walls of the quiet lane. “You chose to wear it.”
“I chose not to be naked! There’s a difference!”
“A subtle one, in your case,” she teased.
Unseen, from the shadowed archway of a sun-dappled courtyard, a pair of calm, observant eyes watched them.
Barriss Offee had been sent by Master Unduli to locate the missing pair, her mission one of mild concern. The scene at the lakeshore had been chaotic, the aftermath of the wave leaving everyone in various states of undress and agitation. Master Unduli, with her typical serene pragmatism, had simply tasked Barriss with finding the Senator and the wayward Padawan, assuming they might need assistance or, more likely, were the source of the continuing disruption.
Barriss had not expected to find them like this.
She saw Padmé first, strolling with a confident, almost swaggering gait, her black swimsuit chic and complete. Then her gaze landed on Charlie, trailing beside her. The Mirialan Jedi Knight’s lips, usually set in a solemn line, twitched. Her pale green cheeks dimpled with the effort to suppress a giggle. He was clad in what could only be described as a lady’s handkerchief, its bold red stripes a laughable contrast to his long, lanky frame and mortified expression. The fabric was so scant it barely qualified as a garment, and from her vantage point, Barriss could see the precise, embarrassing way it dug into his backside.
She raised a hand to call out, to announce her presence and her mission.
Then Charlie’s voice, loud and petulant with frustration, cut through the quiet lane. “It’s been ages! Are we even going the right way? I feel like this entire village is conspiring to keep me in this stupid… this stupid wedgie-machine!” He stopped walking, hooked his thumbs into the side strings, and performed an ungainly, hopping little dance to try and dislodge the fabric, which only served to make the situation more visually absurd.
Padmé turned to face him, her hands landing on her hips. The playful sternness from the boutique returned, amplified by the secluded, intimate setting of the lane. “You chose to wear it,” she said, her voice dropping into a lower, more authoritative register. “And now you’ll learn to appreciate it.”
Before Charlie could formulate another bratty retort, she moved. Her hand shot out, not to slap, but to seize his wrist. With a surprising strength that always lay hidden in her slender frame, she yanked him off the main path, pulling him through a gap in a low, flowering hedge and into a small, private grove of nelphium trees. Their branches formed a fragrant, pink-blossomed canopy, scattering confetti-like petals on the soft, mossy ground below.
Barriss’s eyes widened. Her intended call died in her throat. A flutter, part shock and part thrilling curiosity, stirred in her chest. She glanced around—the lane was empty. Silently, she slipped from the archway and drifted to the edge of the hedge, finding a gap in the foliage that offered a perfect, hidden view into the sun-dappled grove.
Inside the grove, Charlie stumbled, trying to regain his balance. “Padmé, what—?”
“Quiet.” Her tone brooked no argument. In one fluid, decisive motion, she stepped behind him. He felt her fingers, cool and sure, hook into the thin strings that tied the bikini bottom at each hip. He froze.
“Wait—”
She didn’t wait. With a sharp, steady pull, she yanked both ties at once. The knot gave way instantly. The scant white fabric, its duty finally relinquished, slid down his thighs and pooled around his ankles, leaving him completely naked in the dappled light.
A soft, involuntary gasp escaped from behind the hedge. Barriss’s hand flew to her mouth, her dark eyes wide. She watched, utterly transfixed.
Charlie stood perfectly still, the breeze a shocking intimacy on his exposed skin. The humiliation was acute, a hot wash from his chest to his face, but it was laced with that now-familiar, electric thrill. The tiny swimsuit lay around his feet like a discarded joke.
“Hands on that tree trunk,” Padmé ordered, her voice calm and impossibly commanding. She pointed to the broad, gnarled trunk of the largest nelphium tree.
He obeyed without thought. The bark was rough and cool under his palms. He leaned forward, bending at the waist, presenting the very same backside that had so recently been subjected to the shopkeeper’s spoon and was now on full, vulnerable display. The contrast was stunning: the pale, unmarked skin of his lower back and thighs, and the distinct, glowing pink imprints that still marred the curves of his buttocks—a vivid testament to his earlier punishment.
Padmé circled him slowly, a queen surveying her domain. Then she knelt in the soft moss beside him, bringing her face level with his buttocks. Her expression was one of serene, focused assessment. “See?” she said, her voice patronizing and soft. “All this fuss over a little piece of fabric. When the real problem is right here.” She laid her palm flat against one pink cheek. The touch was shockingly intimate, possessive. “An attitude that needs adjusting.”
She drew her hand back and delivered the first slap. It wasn’t the punitive crack of the spoon, nor the playful pop from the beach. This was a firm, measured, resonant smack of skin on skin that echoed softly in the enclosed grove. The sound was profoundly personal.
Charlie flinched, a sharp inhale his only protest.
Smack. The second landed on the same spot, intensifying the sting. “You complain,” Padmé said, her voice a low, instructive melody.
Smack. The other cheek. “You sass.”
Smack. “You make a scene in polite shops.”
Smack. “You blame your clothing for your choices.”
She continued, a dozen slow, deliberate, sharp spanks, each one punctuating a gentle criticism. Her aim was perfect, covering the already-tender skin with fresh, overlapping heat. The pain was bright and clean, a sharp counterpoint to the soft floral air and the cool bark beneath his hands. He bit his lip, his body tense, then gradually yielding to the rhythmic correction. His breathing grew ragged.
Hidden in the foliage, Barriss watched, one hand still clamped over her mouth. Her other hand pressed against the hedge. A quiet, aching tension coiled low in her stomach. She saw the way Padmé’s hand lingered after each impact, soothing and assessing, the way her eyes tracked the deepening color on Charlie’s skin with a look of deep, satisfied affection. It was a discipline that looked like devotion. Barriss found she could not look away.
Finally, Padmé finished. The twelfth spank faded into silence, broken only by the whisper of leaves and Charlie’s unsteady breath. She rested her warm palm flat against the now-uniformly pink and warm skin, her touch gentle.
“There,” she cooed, her voice softening into something tender. “Now you’re presentable again.”
And then she leaned forward. With a tenderness that stole the air from Charlie’s lungs, and from Barriss’s hidden vantage point, she placed a single, soft, lingering kiss directly in the center of one warm buttock.
A low, helpless moan escaped Barriss’s lips, muffled by her own hand. The sound was pure, uncensored reaction, a mix of voyeuristic shock and something else, something deeply intrigued.
In the grove, Padmé froze. Her head turned sharply toward the hedge.
Charlie, his senses screaming from the mix of pain and intimate care, also heard it. He straightened up, but made no move to cover himself, his body thrumming with vulnerability and a strange, defiant pride.
Padmé’s eyes narrowed. A slow, knowing smile replaced her look of surprise. She stood up, brushing moss from her knees, her gaze fixed on the trembling leaves of the hedge.
“Barriss,” she called out, her voice sweet as nelphium nectar and just as deceptive. “Don’t lurk in the bushes. It’s terribly undignified for a Jedi Knight. Come out and say hello.”
For a heartbeat, there was only the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a waterfowl. Then the foliage parted with a guilty whisper.
Barriss Offee stepped into the grove. Her pale green skin was flushed a deeper shade at the crests of her cheeks, the geometric tattoos seeming darker against it. Her hands were clasped formally before her, but her fingers twisted together. “Senator,” she said, her voice admirably level. “Padawan. Master Unduli sent me to locate you both.”
Padmé’s smile didn’t waver. She looked from Barriss’s mortified face to Charlie’s utterly exposed form. “And now you have. Thoroughly.”
Charlie, to his own surprise, found he couldn’t muster the will to move. The cool air, the warm, throbbing aftermath of Padmé’s hand, the sheer absurdity of the situation rooted him in place. He stayed as he was, bent forward, hands on the tree, presenting his well-spanked backside to the newcomer. A perverse, bratty part of him leaned into the exposure.
“You witnessed, then,” Padmé stated, gliding closer to Barriss. It wasn’t a question.
“I… arrived at an inopportune moment,” Barriss conceded, her dark eyes darting away from Charlie’s pink skin for a merciful second before being dragged back. Her dry humor surfaced, brittle but present. “I assure you, my report to Master Unduli will be… heavily redacted.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Padmé stopped an arm’s length away. “Accuracy in reporting is so important for a Jedi. Don’t you think, Charlie?”
He groaned, forehead resting against the bark. “Can I put my pants on? Assuming they still count as pants?”
“No,” Padmé and Barriss said in unison. They glanced at each other, and a flicker of understanding passed between them.
Barriss cleared her throat. “The lesson appears ongoing. It would be… improper to interrupt.”
“See?” Padmé said to Charlie, her tone delightedly reasonable. “A Jedi Knight concurs. Your discipline is a multi-spectrum consensus.” She turned back to Barriss, her head tilting. “Of course, true understanding often requires practical experience. Don’t you find?”
Barriss’s composure cracked for a microsecond. A small, barely audible squeak escaped her. “Senator, I don’t think—”
“You watched,” Padmé interrupted, her voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial. “You watched, and you didn’t leave. You didn’t announce yourself. You stayed hidden in the hedge. That’s not the behavior of a dispassionate observer on a mission, Barriss. That’s the behavior of a spectator.” She took another step, now within Barriss’s personal space. “A spectator who enjoys the show.”
The flush on Barriss’s face deepened, spreading down her neck. Her carefully constructed discipline was peeling away like old paint. “That is an unfair accusation.”
“Is it?” Padmé reached out and, with a gentle fingertip, traced one of the dark tattoo lines on Barriss’s cheek. “Your breathing hitched. I heard it. After the fourth spank, I think.”
Charlie listened, heart pounding. He risked a glance over his shoulder. The sight of the composed Mirialan Knight unraveling under Padmé’s quiet inquisition was as captivating as it was terrifying.
“I was surprised,” Barriss whispered, her defiance hollow.
“You were invested.” Padmé’s hand fell to her side. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Barriss said nothing. Her silence was a louder confession than any shout.
Padmé nodded, as if a minor administrative matter had been settled. “Then you understand the principles at work. The accountability. The… consequences for bratty behavior.” Her gaze swept meaningfully to Charlie, then back. “But passive observation only teaches so much. You’ve seen the theory demonstrated. Perhaps a supplemental tutorial is required.”
She moved then, not towards Charlie, but towards a low-hanging branch of the nelphium tree. She snapped off a slender, flexible switch about as long as her forearm. She stripped the pink blossoms from it with a slow, deliberate pull of her fingers, leaving a smooth, whippy wand of pale green wood.
A genuine note of alarm finally entered Barriss’s voice. “What are you doing?”
“Expanding your education.” Padmé tested the switch against her own palm. It made a faint, terrifying hiss. “Charlie has earned a reinforcement of his lesson. You’ve earned an introduction to it. He’ll count. You’ll receive.”
“You can’t be serious!” Barriss took a step back, her heel crunching on a fallen branch. All her Jedi poise was gone, replaced by the flustered indignation of a girl caught in something she couldn’t control.
“I am a sitting senator and a former queen. I am always serious about pedagogy.” Padmé’s eyes were laughing, but her voice was stone. “Consider it… inter-Jedi diplomacy. A sharing of disciplinary techniques. Now, be a good Knight and assume the position beside your Padawan peer.”
“I am not—he is not my—!” Barriss sputtered, a magnificent blush now covering her entire face and the tips of her ears.
“Barriss,” Charlie said, his voice strained but oddly calm from his vantage point. “Just do it. Arguing makes it worse. Trust me.”
The sheer defeat in his advice seemed to deflate her. She stared at the switch in Padmé’s hand, then at Charlie’s waiting, marked backside. A war waged in her eyes: dignity, curiosity, fear, and a shameful, undeniable flicker of want. The curiosity, and the want, won.
With a sigh that was mostly a shudder, she turned. She took two stiff steps forward and placed her hands on the same broad tree trunk, a foot away from Charlie’s. She leaned forward, presenting the snug, dark fabric of her leggings-covered posterior.
“Not like that,” Padmé chided softly. She tapped the switch against Barriss’s hip. “The lesson is in feeling, not fabric. You know the drill, ‘Bare-ass’.”
The use of the humiliating nickname was the final key. Barriss flinched as if struck. With trembling fingers, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings and the simple underwear beneath. In one clumsy, hurried motion, she pushed them both down to her knees, exposing the smooth, pale green curves of her buttocks to the dappled light. The geometric tattoos swirled over the crests of her hips, framing the vulnerable flesh.
She shuddered, eyes squeezing shut. The cool air was a shock.
“Good,” Padmé murmured. She took a position slightly behind and between them. “Now, Charlie. You will count each stroke I give to Barriss. Clearly. If you miscount, we start again. Understood?”
“Yes,” he breathed, the reality of the situation coiling tightly in his gut.
“Barriss. You will thank the senator after each stroke. For broadening your perspective.”
Barriss gave a tiny, frantic nod.
The switch hissed through the air. It landed not with a thud, but a sharp, biting thwip across the center of Barriss’s exposed backside.
A line of blazing white fire seared across her skin. She jerked violently, a punched-out gasp escaping her.
“One,” Charlie said, his voice surprisingly steady.
A beat of silence. “Th-thank you, Senator,” Barriss choked out, the words humiliating and hot in her mouth.
Thwip! A second line, parallel and lower.
“Two.”
“Thank you, Senator.”
Thwip! A third, angled across the first two.
“Three!”
“Thankyousenator!”
The switch was a cruel, precise instrument. It didn’t bruise broadly like a hand or a spoon; it painted lines of focused, singing pain. Barriss’s body grew taut as a wire. Her knuckles were white against the tree bark. Soft, hiccuping squeaks followed each impact, her carefully cultivated calm obliterated.
Charlie counted, each number pushing him deeper into a shared, agonizing space with her. He watched the pale green skin transform, crisscrossed with rising, angry red welts. His own backside throbbed in sympathy.
Thwip! “Four!” Thwip! “Five!”
Her thanks became a breathless, automatic litany. Tears tracked through the tattoos on her cheeks.
Padmé administered the punishment with the focused care of an artist. There was no malice in her strikes, only a devastating, playful certainty. She was proving a point, binding them together in this scarlet, stinging testament to her will.
After the tenth, she paused. Barriss was shaking, her breath ragged. The grove was filled with the sound of their strained breathing and the gentle, mocking rustle of leaves.
“Lesson concluded,” Padmé announced. She snapped the switch in two and tossed the pieces aside. She placed a warm, gentle hand on the small of Barriss’s back, right where her tunic had ridden up. The kindness of the gesture after the cruelty of the switch was almost worse. “You both performed adequately.”
Barriss didn’t move. She stayed bent, weeping softly, her leggings a puddle around her knees. Charlie finally pushed himself upright, his body protesting. He made no move to retrieve his own discarded scrap of fabric.
Padmé looked at them both, her expression one of profound satisfaction. Then her gaze lifted, looking past the grove towards the distant sound of laughter and splashing from the lakeshore. “Now,” she said, brushing her hands together. “I believe we have a beach full of politicians and Jedi to rejoin. And you two,” she added, a wicked glint returning to her eye, “are going to walk back exactly as you are. Consider it the final, practical examination of your humility.”
She turned and began to walk, not waiting to see if they would follow.
Charlie and Barriss looked at each other, a raw, silent communication passing between them—a mixture of horror, understanding, and a bizarre, nascent camaraderie forged in shared embarrassment. Slowly, achingly, Barriss pulled her clothing back up over her fiercely striped rear. Charlie left the white bikini bottom in the moss.
Together, walking with tender, careful steps, they emerged from the grove and followed Padmé back towards the sun-dazzled lake, their every step a quiet, painful announcement of their surrender.
Together, walking with tender, careful steps, they emerged from the grove and followed Padmé back towards the sun-dazzled lake, their every step a quiet, painful announcement of their surrender. The main path felt exposing under the twin suns, the golden light seeming to spotlight the specific, heated aches they carried. Barriss kept her eyes fixed on the ground, her face a mask of mortified concentration, while Charlie’s gaze darted, anticipating witnesses.
None came immediately. The lane remained quiet, curving gently until the sparkling blue of the lake widened before them, framed by golden sand and laughter. The scene that greeted them was one of chaotic, post-calamity reorganization. The great wave had receded, leaving a landscape of damp belongings and flustered dignity.
Depa Billaba and Bultar Swan had managed to retrieve and don their tunics, though both garments were soaked and clung transparently to their skin, doing little to truly conceal. They stood stiffly near a pile of retrieved sandals, their postures radiating a fury that had nowhere to go. Rey Skywalker was wringing out her tunic over the sand, her hair plastered to her neck, while Aayla Secura calmly braided her damp lekku, her blue skin gleaming with water droplets as if she’d simply chosen a swim.
Ahsoka Tano paced like a caged nexu, her bare feet slapping the wet sand. “This was a coordinated attack! A Jedi couldn’t have done this without leaving a trace!” Her eyes, scanning the shoreline, locked onto the three approaching figures. Her pacing stopped. Her anger sharpened into pinpoint focus. “You.”
Shaak Ti stood serenely in the shallows, water lapping at her waist, having made no attempt to retrieve her own garments. Her warm, knowing smile found Charlie first, then Barriss, taking in their ragged expressions, their careful gait. Her montrals tipped slightly in silent acknowledgment.
Luminara Unduli, clad in a heavy, dripping robe she’d evidently recovered, stood with regal composure on the dry sand. Her sharp eyes went immediately to her Padawan. She saw Barriss’s flushed cheeks, the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides, the unnatural stiffness in her walk that had nothing to do with the sand. Luminara’s gaze narrowed, calculating.
Mon Mothma and Duchess Satine were helping a giggling, sand-coated Riyo Chuchi to her feet. The Pantoran senator was blissfully unconcerned, brushing granules from her blue skin. Satine, having secured a long wrap that covered her essentials, blushed as she noticed the newcomers. Mon Mothma followed her look, her elegant features settling into an expression of deep, auntly appraisal.
“You two,” Ahsoka snapped, stomping forward. Water droplets flew from her lekku. “Where were you? This was your doing, wasn’t it?” She jabbed a finger at Charlie.
“I was being disciplined,” Charlie said, the truth slipping out flat and toneless. It was a shield more effective than any lie.
Ahsoka blinked. Her eyes flicked to Barriss. “You too? For what?”
Barriss said nothing. She simply stared at a point past Ahsoka’s shoulder, the memory of the switch’s kiss burning brighter than the sun on her skin. Her silence was more damning than any confession.
Padmé glided past them both, a study in calm authority amidst the damp disorder. “Their whereabouts are accounted for, Ahsoka. And they’ve been sufficiently… debriefed.” She addressed the group, her senator’s voice cutting through the murmurs. “The wave was a natural anomaly. A unfortunate convergence of currents. Blaming each other is pointless.”
“It stole my clothes!” Bultar Swan barked, plucking at her sheer, clinging tunic.
“It stole everyone’s clothes,” Padmé replied, unperturbed. “A great galactic equalizer. Now.” She clapped her hands once, a soft, decisive sound. “The day is waning, and we are all in need of proper lodging and drier attire. Arguing on the sand solves nothing.”
She turned from them, her gaze searching the beachfront. A local Gungan vendor was righting a tipped-over cart of shell ornaments nearby. Padmé approached him, her demeanor shifting into one of polished, diplomatic warmth. “Excuse me. My friends and I have had a mishap. We require a large, private residence for the night. Something immediately available.”
The Gungan, his large eyes taking in the scattered, half-dressed assemblage of Jedi and senators, nodded with understandable curiosity. “Mesa thinking… da Cushing House be empty. Iz on da cliff, private. Many roomssa.”
“Perfect.” Padmé didn’t ask the price. She extracted a credit chip from a hidden seam in her swimsuit. “We’ll take it. For the week.”
The transaction was swift, silent, and final. The Gungan handed over a large, iridescent abalone-shell key. Padmé turned back to the group, holding the key aloft. It caught the late afternoon light. “Problem solved. Follow me.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The sheer, effortless decisiveness of it, the swift transition from chaotic victimhood to arranged comfort, left them momentarily wordless. It was Mon Mothma who broke the spell, a slow smile gracing her lips. “Always the practical queen, Padmé.”
“Someone has to be,” Padmé said, starting up a carved stone path that led away from the main beach and towards the shadowed cliffs. “Unless you all prefer to sleep on the sand in your current… ensembles.”
That got them moving. A collective, weary sigh passed through the group. They gathered damp belongings—tunics, belts, Ahsoka’s discarded arm guards—and fell into a ragged procession behind Padmé’s determined figure. Charlie and Barriss lingered at the rear, their shared, throbbing discomfort creating an invisible bond. They didn’t speak. They just walked, the promise of walls and a roof offering a fragile solace.
The path climbed, leaving the laughter of the lakeshore behind. The air grew cooler, scented with pine and the mineral tang of cliff stone. The Cushing House emerged as the path curved: a sprawling, ancient structure of weathered grey timber and vast transparisteel windows, perched precariously on the cliff edge like a bird of prey contemplating the water below. It looked both imposing and lonely.
Padmé fitted the shell key into the ornate lock. The door swung inward with a sigh of disuse, revealing a shadowy interior smelling of polished wood and dried herbs. “Home for the week,” she announced, stepping inside.
One by one, they filed past her into the dim foyer. The sense of relief was palpable, a collective release of tension. They were no longer exposed to the galaxy, just to each other. Ahsoka immediately headed for a doorway she hoped led to a fresher. Rey began investigating the hearth, a scavenger’s instinct for resources taking over. Luminara guided a still-silent Barriss towards a long, cushioned bench.
Padmé closed the heavy door. The solid thud of it shutting felt like a full stop. She leaned back against the wood, surveying her damp, disheveled, brilliant, embarrassing cohort now occupying the spacious great room. Her eyes found Charlie’s across the space. She smiled, a private, promising thing. Then her gaze swept the room, taking inventory of the needs, the tensions, the potential.
“Alright,” she said, her voice echoing softly in the high-ceilinged room. “Let’s get settled. Then we can discuss the rules of the house.”