Chapter 14: Morning Discipline and a Thong Transfer
The lake held its breath in the hour before dawn. A deep, velvety blue pressed against the windows of Cushing House, and the world outside was silent save for the occasional lap of water against the dock. Inside, the shared bedroom was a landscape of deep sleep and tangled sheets.
Charlie was lost in a dream of zero-gravity flight when the first touch came—not a shake, but a firm, familiar grip on the waistband of his loose sleep pants. The fabric, thin and worn, was yanked downward in one rude, efficient motion, baring him from the hips to mid-thigh to the cool air of the room. He jerked awake with a grunt, his eyes blurry.
Shaak Ti stood over his bed, a silhouette of serene authority against the window’s faint light. She had already changed from her nightclothes into her day’s attire: a crisp, grey miniskirt and a matching tunic. Without a word of greeting, she gathered the hem of her skirt in both hands and lifted it, folding the fabric back over her hips to reveal her own bare thighs, the red-orange skin smooth and firm. She then sat on the edge of his mattress, the coolness of her exposed skin a stark contrast to the warm sheets.
“Time for morning maintenance, my young Padawans,” she announced, her voice a low, melodic hum that carried across the room to the other bed.
In her cot, Ahsoka groaned, burying her face under her pillow. She was already dressed for the day in her orange and white crop top and a short, cream-coloured miniskirt. “It’s still dark out, Master.”
“Discipline waits for no sun,” Shaak Ti replied cheerfully. “Consider it a shared routine. A little mutual encouragement to keep you both good for the day.”
Charlie, now fully awake and feeling the vulnerability of his exposed lower half, tried to shift. “Do we have to? Today?”
“Especially today.” Shaak Ti’s smile was warm, but her hand settled on his bare flank, holding him in place. She then turned her head towards Ahsoka’s bed. A slight flick of her fingers, a tiny surge of focused telekinesis.
Ahsoka yelped as the hem of her miniskirt was forcibly flicked up and back, landing in a rumpled heap at the small of her back, exposing the shorts she slept in—a pair of loose, blue sleep shorts. And, peeking above their waistband, a thin line of vibrant, canary-yellow fabric.
Shaak Ti’s montrals swiveled slightly. Her eyes narrowed. “Ah. I see the undergarment lessons from yesterday did not fully take hold.”
With another gentle Force nudge, Ahsoka’s sleep shorts were tugged down just enough to confirm it. The yellow fabric was indeed a thong, a scant, embarrassing scrap of material.
“Master, it’s just—” Ahsoka began, scrambling to pull her skirt down.
“It’s just inappropriate for a Jedi Padawan’s morning maintenance,” Shaak Ti finished for her, clicking her tongue in soft disapproval. “Up. Both of you. Over here.”
There was a resigned familiarity to their movements. They had done this before. Charlie shuffled off the bed, his sleep pants puddled around his ankles. He stepped out of them and moved to Shaak Ti’s left side. Ahsoka, with a dramatic sigh, slid off her own bed, her kicked-aside shorts leaving her legs bare beneath the bunched skirt. She took up position on Shaak Ti’s right.
“Assume the position,” Shaak Ti instructed, patting her exposed thighs.
In practiced, if reluctant, unison, they bent forward. Charlie lowered himself across her left thigh, Ahsoka across her right. Their bodies settled with the weight of routine. The bare skin of their buttocks came to rest on the firm flesh of her knees, side-by-side, a paired offering. Charlie’s was pale, lean. Ahsoka’s, already faintly tinged from the previous day’s group correction, was a warmer orange.
“Comfortable?” Shaak Ti asked, her tone genuinely curious.
“Peachy,” Ahsoka muttered into the bedding.
“Lovely.” Shaak Ti’s hands, strong and capable, came to rest, one on each waiting backside. She let them rest there for a moment, a quiet, possessive weight. “Now. Let’s begin.”
The first spank was a twin report, left and right hands landing in perfect, resonant synchronization.
Smack-smack!
The sound was crisp, a sharp punctuation in the quiet room. Charlie stiffened, a hiss escaping his teeth. Ahsoka jerked, a sharp intake of breath.
Shaak Ti did not rush. She established a slow, measured rhythm, her hands rising and falling with the calm certainty of a metronome. Each palm covered a significant portion of its target, landing with a firm, stinging impact that was calculated to warm and chastise, not to bruise.
Smack-smack… Smack-smack…
The spanks were not vengeful; they were methodical. Loving, in their own strict way. They painted a steadily deepening pink across both sets of cheeks, the color blooming more vividly on Ahsoka’s already-sensitive skin. The heat built quickly, a cumulative, buzzing sting that seeped deep into the muscle.
Charlie squirmed, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Ahsoka kicked her feet slightly, a soft, frustrated whine escaping her with each pair of impacts. The intimacy of it was profound—the shared vulnerability, the parallel discomfort, the cool air on their burning skin, and the unwavering, warm presence of their Master beneath them.
Shaak Ti varied the placement. A sharper slap to the undercurve where thigh met cheek, eliciting a louder yelp. A broader, flatter smack to the crest, making the whole body jolt. The rhythm was a conversation in sensation, a reminder of her authority and their place.
After what felt like a small eternity of consistent, warming strokes, Shaak Ti’s hands stilled, resting on the now-thoroughly heated skin. Both Padawans were breathing heavily, their bodies tense with absorbed sensation.
“There,” Shaak Ti said, her voice soft. “Maintenance administered.” She gave each welted cheek a final, almost affectionate squeeze before nudging them upright.
They stood, side-by-side, automatically reaching back to rub at their sore backsides. The dawn light had strengthened, casting a pale grey glow that illuminated their flushed faces and the vivid handprints blooming across their skin.
“Now, Ahsoka,” Shaak Ti said, smoothing her own skirt back down over her thighs. “That distracting garment. Remove it.”
Ahsoka’s blue eyes widened. “What? Here?”
“You should not have put it on here. Therefore, you can remove it here.” Shaak Ti’s tone brooked no argument. “Peel it off. Now.”
Blushing a deep, mortified coral, Ahsoka hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her skirt and the offending yellow string. She wriggled, pushing the fabric down her hips until the thong slipped down her legs. She stepped out of it, holding the tiny, crumpled thing between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead spider.
“Give it to Charlie,” Shaak Ti instructed.
“What?!” both Padawans exclaimed in unison.
“You heard me. He will wear it today. A tangible reminder for him of the consequences of impropriety. And for you,” she said, turning to Ahsoka, “you will go without. A different kind of reminder.”
Ahsoka stared, a slow grin battling her embarrassment. Charlie’s face went from pink to deep scarlet. “Master, you can’t be serious. That’s… it’s hers!”
“And now it is your lesson. Take it.”
Ahsoka, seeing an opportunity to shift the humiliation, stepped forward with a mischievous glint. “C’mon, Charlie. Don’t be shy. Leg up.”
Helpless, Charlie lifted a foot. Ahsoka knelt, making a show of it. She shook the flimsy yellow garment out, then guided his foot through the leg hole. The elastic was still warm from her body. She pulled it up his leg, her fingers brushing his calf, his thigh. The intimate act of dressing him in her own discarded underwear was excruciating. The thin strap settled in a deeply unfamiliar, embarrassing place. Ahsoka tugged the waistband up over his hips, where it sat, a glaring yellow line above his own pajama bottoms, which he hurriedly pulled back up, the foreign fabric a constant, whispering presence against his skin.
“There,” Ahsoka said, patting his waist. “Suits you.”
“As for you,” Shaak Ti said to Ahsoka, “your skirt will suffice. Let the air circulate. It will be good for you.”
Ahsoka, now definitively commando, felt a dizzying sense of exposure as she let her miniskirt fall back into place. The soft interior lining brushed directly against her freshly spanked, bare skin. Every slight movement, every draft, was a heightened sensation.
From the doorway, a voice, dry and amused, cut through the morning tension.
“A charming tableau. The matching blush is particularly coordinated.”
Barriss Offee leaned against the doorframe, already dressed, her geometric tattoos stark against her green skin. She had clearly been watching for some time, a sly grin playing on her lips. “Morning maintenance, was it? Looked more like a double glazing.”
“Barriss!” Ahsoka hissed, crossing her arms over her chest as if that could hide her lower-half vulnerability.
“I especially enjoyed the accessory swap,” Barriss continued, her eyes drifting to Charlie’s waistline. “Yellow is your color, Charlie. Really brings out the red in your cheeks. Both sets, I imagine.”
Charlie groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Charlie groaned, burying his face in his hands.
“It seems my Padawan has forgotten her own history of corrections,” a serene voice observed from the hallway behind Barriss.
Luminara Unduli glided into the room, her dark robes whispering against the floor. Her braided crown was immaculate, her expression one of gentle amusement as she regarded Barriss, whose sly grin froze instantly. “To take such delight in another’s discipline suggests a short memory, Barriss.”
Barriss’s pale green skin flushed a deeper emerald at her master’s sudden presence. “Master, I was merely—”
“Observing? Oh, I know.” Luminara moved to stand beside Shaak Ti, her sharp brown eyes fixed on her flustered apprentice. “It reminds me of your early days. Do you remember our routine?”
A cold dread pooled in Barriss’s stomach. “Master, please…”
“The Temple mess hall, just after the evening meal,” Luminara continued, her voice warm with reminiscence. “You’d have that look—the one that said you’d debated the finer points of the Code just a little too aggressively with another initiate.”
Shaak Ti listened with a knowing smile, her hands folded before her. Charlie and Ahsoka, their own embarrassment momentarily forgotten, watched with rapt, curious silence.
“I would call you over,” Luminara said, her gaze distant. “You’d come, trying to look so composed. And I’d have you bend right there, beside the cutlery return. I’d pull your leggings down just enough, while the other Padawans pretended not to snicker behind their cups.”
Barriss’s hand drifted unconsciously to her own backside, fingers pressing against the fabric of her trousers as if feeling a ghostly echo. Her face was burning.
“You always yelped,” Luminara mused, a fond tease in her tone. “A sharp little squeak on the first strike. Then you’d whimper, your toes curling in your boots. But you never fought. You’d always remember to thank me afterward, your voice all shaky.”
“She thanked you?” Ahsoka blurted, her eyes wide.
“Profusely.” Luminara’s smile deepened. “It was part of the lesson. Humility and gratitude, even when your backside was smarting in front of half your creche-mates.” She focused back on Barriss, who looked as if she wished the floor would swallow her. “Then there was the time with the Hapan honey-cakes. Do you recall?”
Barriss shook her head, a tiny, frantic motion. Her other hand now clutched at her own elbow, bracing herself.
“You’d smuggled a whole tray from the kitchens,” Luminara recounted, her voice painting the scene for the captivated room. “You shared them with your friends in the droid maintenance bay, getting sticky fingerprints on everything. I had to bare you completely for that one. Right there in the bay, over a repair console. Your little green bottom turned such a pretty, uniform pink.”
A quiet, choked sound escaped Barriss’s throat. Her shoulders hunched. The geometric tattoos on her cheeks stood out starkly against the deep flush of her skin.
Charlie watched, fascinated. The unfamiliar pressure of the yellow thong under his own clothes felt less significant somehow, compared to this unraveling of Barriss’s composed dignity. He saw her hand kneading the fabric over her rear, a nervous, self-soothing rhythm.
“Constant corrections,” Luminara said softly, her voice a loving caress that somehow made the revelation more devastating. “Applied diligently to the seat of your learning. They shaped you, my dear. They shaped the Jedi you are today.”
The silence that followed was thick and absolute. Barriss could not meet anyone’s eyes. She stared at a knot in the wooden floorboards, her breath shallow, the phantom sting of a thousand past spankings suddenly vibrant and real across her nerves. Her master’s warm, teasing tone had stripped her bare more effectively than any pair of hands ever could.
Luminara simply nodded, serene and satisfied, as if she had just completed a flawless lesson in perspective.
Luminara simply nodded, serene and satisfied, as if she had just completed a flawless lesson in perspective.
Her hand then came to rest lightly on Barriss’s shoulder, the touch both grounding and inescapable. “Of course,” Luminara said, her voice a warm, teasing hum that only Barriss could fully hear, “if you are so visibly entertained by the punishments of others, it stands to reason you might be due a refresher course of your own. The principles of equitable attention come to mind.”
Barriss’s breath hitched. The flush that had warmed her face now flooded down her neck, a visible tide of green darkening her skin beneath her robes. “Master, that was… a long time ago,” she managed, her voice thinner than she intended.
“Fundamental lessons bear repeating,” Luminara replied, her fingers applying the gentlest pressure. “To ensure the knowledge hasn’t faded.” Her sharp brown eyes scanned the room, taking in the audience—Ahsoka’s intrigued stare, Charlie’s sympathetic wince, Shaak Ti’s approving silence. “We have a willing audience, much as you did in the mess hall. And a conveniently unoccupied surface.”
She guided Barriss, who moved with the stiff, resigned gait of a condemned woman, toward the foot of Ahsoka’s recently vacated bed. The sheets were still rumpled from the earlier struggle.
“Master Unduli, please,” Barriss whispered, a last, futile attempt at composure crumbling.
“The please is noted,” Luminara said calmly. She did not ask Barriss to bend. Instead, with a practitioner’s efficiency, she unfastened the closure of Barriss’s trousers. The soft shush of the zip descending was deafening in the quiet room. Hook and eye followed, then the whisper of fabric as the trousers were eased down over Barriss’s hips, past her thighs, to pool around her boots.
Barriss closed her eyes, her geometric tattoos stark against her mortified skin. She wore simple, pale grey underwear, a stark contrast to the vibrant yellow currently residing on Charlie. Luminara considered them for a silent moment.
“These are acceptable,” she conceded. “For now.” Her hand settled on the small of Barriss’s back, applying firm, guiding pressure. “Over you go.”
There was no graceful way to comply. Barriss bent forward, her torso sinking into the soft bedding, her arms outstretched. The position raised her rear, clad only in the thin grey fabric, into the open air. It was a profoundly vulnerable tableau, one she had not enacted in years. The memory of the droid bay, the cutlery return, a dozen other humiliating locations, crashed over her all at once.
Ahsoka watched, her own bareness forgotten, captivated by the sight of her unflappable friend being publicly prepared. Charlie looked away briefly, his cheeks hot, the unfamiliar strap of the thong a bizarre counterpoint to Barriss’s plight.
Luminara gathered the hem of Barriss’s tunic, folding it up onto her back to fully expose the target. Her hand, pale against Barriss’s green skin, rested for a measured moment on the curve of her left cheek. “Count them, Padawan. And mind your gratitude.”
The first spank landed with a crisp, clean sound. It was not thunderous, but precise and deep, the kind that promised a lasting sting.
“One,” Barriss said into the mattress, her voice muffled but clear. A tremor ran through her.
Smack.
“Two.” Her toes curled inside her boots. The heat began to seep through the cotton, a focused, biting warmth. Luminara’s rhythm was deliberate, a slow, resonant punishment that allowed each impact to fully resonate before the next began.
Smack.
“Three.” Barriss’s knuckles were white where they gripped the sheets. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, but the darkness behind her lids was full of the imagined stares of her friends.
Smack.
“Four.” A slight, involuntary hitch in her breath betrayed her. The spanks were methodical, covering the same territory her Master had described, the seat of her learning. Each one felt like an echo, a reinforcement of every correction that had come before.
Smack.
“Five.” The counting was a ritual she’d forgotten, a mantra of submission that dragged her back to her earliest, most obedient self. The grey fabric did little to mute the sensation; it heated quickly, becoming a thin, agonizing conduit for the discipline.
Smack.
“Six.” Her composure fissured. A soft, high-pitched whimper escaped her, the very sound Luminara had reminisced about. It hung in the air, a testament to the master’s perfect recall.
Ahsoka bit her lip, a strange mix of sympathy and fascination rooting her to the spot. She saw Barriss’s shoulders tense with each strike, saw the muscles in her thighs quiver. Shaak Ti observed with a quiet, professional interest, noting the technique.
Smack.
“Seven.” Barriss’s voice was shakier now, colored with a distress that was entirely genuine. The playful observer was gone, replaced by the chastised apprentice. The sting was cumulative, a bright, painful ache that spread and settled deep.
Smack.
“Eight.” Her body jerked forward with the force, her face pressing deeper into the bedding. The warmth was turning into a fierce, glowing heat, the grey fabric surely hiding a vivid blush. The pause between strikes felt longer, heavier.
Smack.
“Nine.” The number was gasped. Tears of sheer frustration and humiliation pricked at the corners of her closed eyes. This was the refresher course, and every second of it was excruciatingly effective.
Smack.
“Ten.” She almost sobbed it. Her entire world had narrowed to the fiery, throbbing focus in her rear and the weight of the audience behind her.
Luminara’s hand rested flat on the punished area, feeling the pronounced heat radiating through the cotton. She let the silence stretch, letting Barriss feel the aftermath, the exposure, the echo of the final count. Then, she carefully smoothed Barriss’s tunic back down.
“You may stand.”
The command was gentle. Moving stiffly, Barriss pushed herself up from the bed. She kept her back to the room for a moment, her hands fumbling to pull her trousers back up over the agonizing tenderness. The fabric rasped against the soreness, making her hiss softly. When she finally turned, she couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Her green skin was flushed a deep, blotchy jade, her eyes bright with unshed tears of shame.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered, the words automatic, ingrained, and utterly sincere in their humiliation.
“You are welcome, my dear,” Luminara said, her serenity unbroken. She looked to Shaak Ti, then to the two other Padawans. “I believe that concludes our morning curriculum.”
She glided from the room, leaving a thick, complex silence in her wake. Barriss stood motionless, one hand pressed discreetly against her throbbing backside. Ahsoka finally broke the quiet.
“You okay, Barriss?” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft.
Barriss drew a shuddering breath, mastering herself. She lifted her chin, though the blush remained. “The principles are… refreshed,” she said, her dry humor returning like a shield, though it was cracked and strained. She looked at Charlie, then at Ahsoka, her eyes lingering on Ahsoka’s skirt. A new, calculative glint slowly replaced the shame. “Thoroughly.”
The single word hung between them, a promise and a threat. The game had not ended. It had merely found a new, more volatile piece on the board. The momentum of the morning now pointed squarely toward an afternoon of reckoning.