Chapter 13: The Panty Raid
The morning’s solemnity dissolved under the Naboo sun. The meditations ordered by Luminara were performed, but with a tangible restlessness. The sting of recent corrections—both from the switch and the dawn’s bare-handed discipline—lingered in the air, a low-grade itch seeking relief. It wasn’t malice that drove the next move, but a circuitous need for camaraderie, a reassertion of the playful equilibrium that humiliation, once shared, could restore.
Barriss found Rey in the kitchen, scrubbing the berry bowl with intense focus. The memory of her own reddened backside was a quiet, throbbing companion, a dull echo of the hanging wedgie’s sharper agony. She leaned against the counter.
“My quarters feel… confining,” Barriss said, her voice dry.
Rey glanced up, her eyes knowing. She’d been an unwitting instrument of justice, but the sight of Ahsoka and Barriss dangling had stirred something other than guilt. It had been funny. And Ahsoka, her friendly rival, had gotten off easier in the grove. A balance felt… pending.
“Ahsoka’s in the ‘fresher,” Rey said, her tone casual. “The sonic shower’s been running for a while. She’s probably trying to steam the soreness out.”
A silent understanding passed between them. This wasn’t about retaliation against an authority. This was peer-to-peer. This was tradition.
“She was awfully smug while we were… suspended,” Barriss observed, picking at a cut on her thumb.
“And she left her travel case in the hallway when she went to clean up,” Rey added, a scavenger’s precision in her observation. “The lock is a basic CZ-3 tumbler. I have a tool that would fit.”
They moved without another word. The hallway was empty, bathed in noon light. Ahsoka’s modest leather travel case sat propped against the wall outside the ‘fresher door, from which came the low hum of the sonic generator. Rey produced a slender, twisted piece of metal from a pocket seam. Three seconds of probing, a soft click, and the case opened.
Inside, folded with a padawan’s neatness, were tunics, spare leggings, and a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. Barriss unfolded it.
A quiet, choked snort escaped her. Rey peered over her shoulder, her hand flying to her mouth.
Laid out on the floor were three pairs of underwear. They were not the standard, functional issue of a Jedi. One pair was a blinding, electric pink, made of a thin cotton, with the word SASSY arching across the seat in glittering, silver script. Another was a cheerful, childish blue, dotted with smiling cartoon banthas. The third was a faded, soft pair, clearly well-worn, adorned with a simple, peeling rainbow pattern.
“These are… profoundly immature,” Barriss whispered, her dark eyes wide with delight.
“They’re adorable,” Rey corrected, grinning. “She’ll die.”
The plan formed instantly. They gathered the evidence, closed and re-locked the case, and slipped into the room Ahsoka was sharing with Barriss. With ceremonial slowness, they arranged the three pairs on Ahsoka’s neatly made bed. The pink SASSY pair was centered, the banthas to the left, the faded rainbow to the right. They sat on Barriss’s cot to wait.
The sonic shower hummed to a stop. A few minutes later, the ‘fresher door slid open. Ahsoka emerged, wrapped in a large, fluffy towel knotted above her chest. Her montrals were damp, beads of moisture clinging to her blue and white stripes. She padded down the hall, her mind clearly elsewhere, perhaps still revisiting the sting of Shaak Ti’s rapid-fire spanks.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
Her eyes landed on the bed. Her entire body froze. The casual, post-shower ease vaporized, replaced by a statue-still shock. Her bright blue eyes darted from the pink, to the banthas, to the rainbow. A flush, deeper than the steam had caused, bloomed across her orange cheeks and spread down her neck.
“Where did you—” she began, her voice strangled.
“We were investigating a potential security breach,” Barriss said evenly, though her lips twitched. “We found contraband.”
“Those are mine!” Ahsoka hissed, lunging for the bed.
It was exactly the reaction they’d hoped for. As Ahsoka’s fingers grasped for the pink fabric, a lanky figure appeared in the doorway. Charlie, drawn by the commotion, peered in. His eyes took in the scene: Ahsoka, towel-clad and frantic, the garish underwear displayed like museum pieces, Barriss and Rey watching with innocent expressions.
His hand shot out, faster than Ahsoka’s. He snagged the SASSY pair by the waistband, lifting them high. He turned the label toward him, squinting.
“’One size fits most,’” he read aloud, his voice laced with mock curiosity. “’Machine wash gentle. Do not bleach.’ And this…” He rotated the garment, letting the glittering word catch the light. “’Sassy.’ Is that a brand, or a description?”
“Give those back!” Ahsoka snarled, spinning to face him, her towel gaping slightly at the front.
“Or what?” Charlie taunted, dangling them just out of reach. “You’ll lecture me with your bantha buddies? They look friendly.” He nodded to the bed.
With a growl of pure indignation, Ahsoka launched herself at him. She forgot about her precarious wrap. She forgot about Rey, the expert tripper, sitting quietly on the edge of the cot.
As Ahsoka surged forward, Rey’s foot slid out, a simple, precise obstacle at ankle height.
Ahsoka’s momentum carried her past her point of balance. She yelped, arms windmilling, and crashed face-first onto her own bed, her body landing amidst the displayed underwear. The force of the impact jolted the knot of her towel loose. The fabric unfurled, sliding down her back and pooling around her hips.
For a full second, there was silence.
Ahsoka lay sprawled, her face buried in her pillow, the cartoon bantha fabric under her cheek. From her shoulders down to the tops of her thighs, she was completely bare. The morning’s spanking had left a faint, rosy hue across her rear, a visual testament to Shaak Ti’s lesson.
The doorway suddenly seemed very crowded.
Shaak Ti stood there, a tray of iced drinks in her hands. She had been on her way to the terrace. Her warm, red-orange face moved through a series of expressions: surprise, comprehension, amusement. Her gaze rested on the scene—the stolen underwear in Charlie’s hand, the trapped, half-naked Padawan on the bed, the two accomplices trying and failing to look neutral.
She stepped into the room, setting the tray down on a dresser with a soft click.
“It would seem,” Shaak Ti said, her melodic voice filling the quiet, “a Jedi must be prepared for any humiliation. Even those rooted in her… choice of foundational garments.”
Before Ahsoka could push herself up or grab for the towel, Shaak Ti’s hand descended. It wasn’t the hard, punitive volley from the common room. This was a single, sharp, perfectly aimed spank delivered to the center of Ahsoka’s exposed cheek.
Smack!
The sound was crisp, almost musical. Ahsoka jerked, a squeak muffled by the pillow.
“Exposed, both in flesh and in wardrobe,” Shaak Ti mused, her hand resting for a moment on the warmed skin. “A teachable moment.”
Charlie’s grin was now a fully formed thing of mischief. He dropped the pink underwear on Ahsoka’s back. “I think this belongs to the sassy one.”
That broke the dam.
Bultar Swan, hearing the noise, appeared behind Charlie. She took in the sight of Ahsoka’s predicament, her own morning wedgie freshly remembered. “Well, well. The predator becomes the pillow princess.” She stepped forward, and before Ahsoka could squirm away, delivered a firm, stinging swat of her own to Ahsoka’s other cheek. “That’s for the aerial display you gave me last night.”
Ahsoka kicked her legs, but with her torso pinned by her own weight and the tangle of towels and underwear, she was effectively trapped. “Stop it! This isn’t—”
“Fair?” Padmé’s voice came from the hallway. She edged into the room, her expression one of serene justice. “You participated in a conspiracy that violated the sanctity of sleep. You are now experiencing a conspiracy that violates the sanctity of your… cuteness.” She leaned over, her hand administering a smart, precise slap. “The people, through their former Queen, have spoken.”
Riyo Chuchi peered around the doorframe, her blue face a picture of fascinated confusion. “Are we spanking her because of the undergarments? They are very… cheerful.”
“We’re spanking her because she has a spankable presentation,” Mon Mothma clarified, moving past Riyo with an auntly air. She surveyed the scene. “And because allowing such a target to go unaddressed would be a dereliction of our duty to her… character development.” Her swat was not the hardest, but it was measured and authoritative, landing with a solid thwack. “Consider it a remedial lesson in humility, young one.”
Aayla Secura simply laughed, a bright, infectious sound. She didn’t bother with commentary. She just stepped up, aimed, and delivered a spank that was more playful than painful, but noisy and emphatic. “For the banthas!” she declared.
Ahsoka’s protests became a stream of muffled, pleading grunts into the pillow. Her feet kicked helplessly. The initial shock and indignation were slowly being beaten out of her, replaced by a burning, all-encompassing embarrassment that spread from her blazing cheeks down her spine. Each new hand brought a different texture, a different weight, a new sting layered over the last. The pink “SASSY” underwear slid off her back and onto the floor.
The last to step forward was Barriss. Her face was a mask of Jedi serenity, but her eyes sparkled. She looked at her best friend, bare and squirming, victim of the very prankishness they both adored. She raised her hand.
“This,” Barriss said softly, “is for leaving your case where a simple tool could open it.” Her spank was crisp, landing cleanly on the already well-tended skin.
It was the final straw. Ahsoka collapsed, going limp, her face still buried. A shuddering, half-laugh, half-sob shook her shoulders. The sound was unmistakable. She was laughing, despite herself, the absurdity of it all flooding through her.
The group drew back, the collective energy dissipating. Ahsoka lay there, a painted, stinging map of their attention, surrounded by the childish fabrics that had been her undoing.
Shaak Ti finally took pity. She gathered the edge of the fallen towel and draped it back over Ahsoka’s lower half. “Lesson concluded,” she announced, though her smile lingered. “I believe the drinks on the terrace are getting warm.”
The room emptied, leaving only the scent of clean skin, charged air, and silent laughter. Ahsoka listened to their retreating footsteps and casual conversation as they moved down the hall.
“The rainbow ones were actually quite soft-looking,” Rey was saying.
“The glitter, however, is a security hazard,” Barriss replied dryly.
Slowly, Ahsoka pushed herself up. She wrapped the towel tightly around herself again, sitting on the edge of the ravaged bed. She looked at the bantha-print pair still crumpled on her blanket. She picked them up, her expression unreadable.
Then, a slow, wry smile touched her lips. She tucked the underwear under her pillow. A plan, complex and sweetly vengeful, began to curl in the back of her mind, its first tendrils fueled by the gentle, throbbing warmth they’d all left behind.
A plan, complex and sweetly vengeful, began to curl in the back of her mind, its first tendrils fueled by the gentle, throbbing warmth they’d all left behind.
The terrace settled into a lazy afternoon rhythm. Iced drinks sweated onto coasters. The lake stretched, a flat blue mirror. Laughter from the earlier incident had faded into contented silence, each person nursing their own memories of the day’s sharp delights.
Depa Billaba walked the shaded perimeter of the house, seeking a cooler breeze. Her elaborate braids were tight against her scalp, a regal contrast to the loose, casual robes she now wore. The wooden hallway was quiet, the doors to the bedrooms mostly closed. One, however, was ajar—Shaak Ti’s.
A faint, metallic glint on the floor just inside caught Depa’s disciplined eye. She paused, then pushed the door open slightly. There, on the rug, lay a small, polished droid actuator and a spool of thin, high-tensile wire.
It was identical to the mono-filament Rey had used.
Depa’s sharp brown eyes narrowed. She stepped fully into the room, her gaze sweeping the space. It was tidy, but on the desk, beside a datapad, was a schematic. It was a rough sketch of the hallway, with two small ‘x’ marks near the doorframe and the heating conduit. Annotations in Shaak Ti’s flowing script noted tension ratios and probable grip points.
A cold understanding trickled down Depa’s spine. The trap that had caught Ahsoka and Barriss hadn’t been Rey’s unconscious work alone. It had been refined. Enhanced. The probability of a random sleep-setting snaring two people so perfectly was astronomically low.
This was sabotage with a signature.
“Looking for something, Master Billaba?”
The voice was a warm melody from behind her. Depa turned. Shaak Ti filled the doorway, her montrals nearly brushing the frame, her expression one of mild curiosity. There was no surprise in her eyes, only a deep, knowing amusement.
“I found wire,” Depa stated, her voice level. She gestured to the actuator. “And components. The design on your desk suggests premeditation regarding last night’s… entanglement.”
“Observation is a Jedi’s duty,” Shaak Ti said, gliding into the room. She closed the door with a soft, final click. “As is understanding that a lesson sometimes needs… structural support to be truly effective.”
“You engineered their capture.” It wasn’t an accusation, merely a conclusion. “You used Rey’s instinct and improved upon it. You wanted them hung there.”
“I wanted the lesson to be inescapable. Literally.” Shaak Ti stopped a few feet from Depa, her head tilted. “It served its purpose, did it not? A far more memorable correction than a simple scolding.”
Depa crossed her arms. “It was a deception. The girls believed it was chance. The Council believed it was justice. It was neither. It was theater.”
“And you have uncovered the director.” Shaak Ti’s smile didn’t fade; it deepened, becoming something more intimate. “Now, the question becomes: what does the uncoverer do with her discovery?”
“The truth should be known. Manipulation undermines trust.”
“Does it?” Shaak Ti took another step forward. The space between them charged, growing warm. “Or does it provide a more elegant solution? Would Barriss have learned more from a lecture? Would Ahsoka’s pride have been properly checked by a time-out? The galaxy is not a simple place of truth and lies, Depa. It is nuanced. Like discipline.”
Depa held her ground, but a flicker of uncertainty passed behind her eyes. Shaak Ti’s logic was seductive, layered with the unassailable authority of a Master who got results. “Your method was… underhanded.”
“It was creative.” Shaak Ti’s hand came up, not in a threat, but to gently adjust a stray lock of hair near Depa’s temple. Her fingers lingered, brushing the dark skin of her cheek. “And you, my serene friend, have been hovering at the edges of our little games for days. Watching. Judging. Perhaps… longing to play?”
“I do not long for childish pranks,” Depa said, but her voice had lost some of its steel.
“Not for pranks. For release.” Shaak Ti’s voice dropped to a whisper. “For someone to see the woman beneath the Master. For someone to take the weight of your decorum, just for a moment, and give you something else to feel.”
Depa’s breath hitched. The observation was terrifyingly accurate. She had watched the spankings, the wedgies, the laughter with a scholar’s distance, but her skin had remembered the phantom echoes of older, simpler touches.
“You manipulated a disciplinary action,” Depa whispered.
“I did.” Shaak Ti’s other hand rose, settling on Depa’s hip. “And now you’ve caught me. So, I suppose you must punish me.”
The statement hung, absurd and electrifying. Depa blinked. “What?”
“You are a Jedi Master. I have committed a act of deception against fellow Jedi. You have the evidence.” Shaak Ti’s thumbs traced small circles on Depa’s robe. “Administer justice.”
This was a game, but the rules were liquid, shifting. Depa understood power. This was not that. This was an invitation into a shadowed garden where power was just another toy. “You… you wish to be punished?”
“I wish,” Shaak Ti said, leaning closer, her breath a warm scent of tea and spice, “for you to take charge. I’ve wanted to give you a reason. Now you have one.”
Depa’s mind raced, then stilled. The coiled tension in her abdomen, built over days of observation, snapped. A flush bloomed across her cheeks. “Very well. You will… you will stand in the corner. Facing the wall. And you will remove your outer robes.”
A delighted spark lit Shaak Ti’s eyes. She stepped back, her movements suddenly fluid with submission. “Yes, Master Billaba.”
She went to the far corner of the sunlit room, where the walls met. With deliberate, graceful slowness, she untied the sash of her pale tunic and let the heavy fabric slide from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet, leaving her in just a thin, sleeveless undershirt and her leggings. The red-orange skin of her back and shoulders was exposed, the white markings stark and beautiful.
“Hands at your sides. Do not turn around,” Depa instructed, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears.
Shaak Ti obeyed, staring at the seam where the wall met the wood. The afternoon light gilded the curve of her montrals, the line of her spine.
Depa did not move from the center of the room. She watched. The sight of the powerful, graceful Master standing in penitent half-undress sent a jolt through her that was both illicit and deeply satisfying. Shaak Ti’s composure was absolute, yet her stillness felt like a held breath.
Then, slowly, Depa let her gaze travel down that exposed back. Her own fingers twitched at her sides. The quiet in the room was profound, broken only by the distant cry of a lake bird.
Little did Depa know, Shaak Ti had precisely what she wanted.
From her position, Shaak Ti could see Depa’s reflection in the dark glass of a framed landscape on the wall. She watched Depa’s rigid posture, the conflicted hunger in her eyes. A small, secret smile touched Shaak Ti’s lips.
Then, Shaak Ti’s own hand, hidden from Depa’s direct view by the angle of her body, drifted down. It slipped beneath the waistband of her leggings. Her breathing remained even, perfectly controlled. Her fingers moved with subtle, knowing circles, a quiet celebration of her own cleverness and the thrilling submission she had orchestrated. She watched Depa watching her, and the dual sensations—of being disciplined and being secretly, sinuously aroused by it—coalesced into a warm, private tremor.
Minutes passed. The silence stretched, becoming a tangible thing.
“Now,” Depa said, the word cracking slightly. She cleared her throat. “Place your hands on the wall. At shoulder height.”
Shaak Ti did so, leaning forward. The position arched her back, presenting the curve of her rear still covered by the thin leggings.
“You manipulated the course of justice for your own amusement,” Depa stated, walking closer now. She stopped just behind Shaak Ti. “You turned a lesson into a spectacle. This is… undignified.”
“It is,” Shaak Ti agreed, her voice a hum of contentment.
“Therefore,” Depa continued, the script forming as she spoke, “your punishment must reflect that indignity. You will… you will move. In a manner unbecoming a Jedi Master.”
Shaak Ti glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Unbecoming how?”
Depa’s face burned. The words felt ridiculous, but the power to command them was intoxicating. “You will twerk.”
A genuine, surprised laugh burst from Shaak Ti, rich and melodic. “Oh, Depa. How inventive.” She didn’t hesitate. She pushed back against the wall with her hands, and then, with a roll of her hips that was both absurd and hypnotically graceful, she began to move.
The motion was a deliberate, rhythmic bump and grind against the empty air. Her leggings tightened across her backside with each thrust. It was silly. It was profoundly embarrassing. It was also, undeniably, captivating.
Depa watched, her lips parted, her earlier sternness dissolving into bewildered arousal. The sight of the revered Shaak Ti, half-dressed and dutifully shaking her ass in a corner as commanded, was a secret she would carry forever. It was a punishment that was no punishment at all for its recipient, but a gift wrapped in humiliation, given and received in equal measure.
Shaak Ti completed a final, exaggerated shake and went still, her forehead resting against the wall. Her shoulders trembled, not with shame, but with silent laughter.
“Justice,” she breathed, “is served.”
Depa could think of nothing to say. The balance of power had not just shifted; it had evaporated, revealing something far more complicated and intimate beneath. She took a step back, the evidence of her own stirring interest a secret she now clutched tightly.
From the hallway, the sound of approaching voices—Riyo’s light questions, Aayla’s laughing answers—drifted closer.
Shaak Ti straightened smoothly, pulling her tunic back on with practiced ease. She turned, her face a perfect mask of serene composure, though her eyes held a galaxy of mischief. “I believe our business is concluded, Master Billaba. Shall we join the others?”
She glided past Depa, opening the door just as the group passed by. “Ah, there you are! We were thinking of a swim.”
Depa stood alone in the room for a moment longer, the images etched behind her eyes: the wire, the schematic, the corner, the movement. She smoothed her robes, tucked a stray braid back into place, and walked out to the terrace, carrying the dizzying, secret weight of what had just transpired.
The afternoon light seemed sharper, the laughter louder. Charlie was challenging Rey to a handstand contest in the shallows. Padmé was applying sunscreen to Satine’s shoulders with scientific focus. Ahsoka, now dressed, sat with Barriss, their heads close together in quiet conspiracy.
And Shaak Ti was accepting a drink from Mon Mothma, her laughter ringing out clear and warm, as if nothing in the galaxy had ever been amiss.