Chapter 2: Caught and Corrected
Her grip on his shoulder was absolute, a senator’s command disguised in a gentle hold. She steered him not back toward the beach, but deeper into the green, away from the clearing where Padmé now stood adjusting her new suit, blissfully unaware.
“Walk,” Mon whispered, the word a direct order. The supple reeds brushed against their legs, whispering secrets.
They reached a small, secluded hollow, walled in by weather-smoothed boulders and a dense curtain of foliage. The sounds of the beach were muffled here, the laughter distant and watery. The air was cooler, smelling of damp earth and sun-warmed stone.
Mon spun him, her movement efficient. She pushed him face-first against the largest boulder. The granite was rough and heated, a shocking contrast to the cool shade. She planted one hand in the center of his back, pinning him.
“This is a lesson in boundaries, young man,” she said, her voice no longer a whisper but low and clear. “A lesson in respect. And in observing without… participating.”
Her other hand went to the waistband of his loud board shorts. He tensed, a protest dying in his throat as she yanked them down in one swift, uncompromising motion. The fabric pooled around his knees. The warm, humid air touched his bare skin.
“Please,” he managed, the word shaky.
“Please, what?” Mon asked. She wasn’t looking for an answer. She was scanning the ground beside them. Her eyes settled on a tall, whippy reed, its stem thick and fibrous. She snapped it off near the base.
She tested its flexibility against her own palm. It made a sharp, whistling crack. Charlie flinched.
The first stroke landed. It wasn’t a slap; it was a precise, biting line of fire laid across the crest of his buttocks. The sound was a clean thwip that echoed in the hollow.
Charlie’s breath hitched. He buried his face against his forearm, the rough stone scraping his cheek.
Thwip.
A second line, parallel to the first. The pain was bright, shocking. It deepened, settling into a fierce, focused burn.
Thwip.
A third. He squeezed his eyes shut. The world narrowed to the smell of crushed greenery, the grit of the rock under his palms, and the methodical, devastating rhythm of the reed.
Thwip. Thwip.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, born from the sheer, startling intensity of it. He held them back, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. His focus turned outward: the rustle of leaves above, a distant shout—Rey’s laugh, maybe—the low hum of insect life. He anchored himself to those sounds, distancing himself from the heat building in his rear.
Mon was not breathing heavily. Her strikes were measured, judicial. She painted a pattern of intersecting lines, each one a sharp, clarifying sting.
“You will learn to control your impulses,” she said, her voice calm amidst the violence. “You will learn that looking is one thing. Lusting is another. And acting on it?” Thwip. “That invites consequence.”
She delivered a final, searing triplet—thwip, thwip, thwip—across the most tender, under-curve of his bottom. Charlie’s knees buckled. A low, choked grunt was forced from his lips.
Silence.
The only sound was his own ragged breathing, echoing off the stone. The punishing heat in his skin throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He heard the soft rustle as she dropped the reed. Then her hands were on him again, not striking. She pulled his shorts back up, dragging the coarse fabric over the fiery, sensitized skin. He hissed at the contact.
Her hands lingered on his hips, turning him around to face her. His vision was blurry. He blinked, clearing the unshed tears.
Mon Mothma looked perfectly composed. Not a strand of her intricate ginger chignon was out of place. Her expression was serious, but in her eyes, he saw a complex swirl: satisfaction, a trace of something warmer, and an unwavering authority.
She leaned close, her voice a confidential murmur. “That was me being gentle, Charlie. A friendly, auntie-style reminder.” She smoothed the front of his ridiculous shorts, her knuckles brushing deliberately against him. He was still hard, a trapped, aching tension that now warred with the throbbing pain. The contradiction was maddening. “The next time you are caught in such a… compromising position, I will not be so lenient. Do you understand?”
He nodded, unable to form words.
“Good.” She patted his cheek, the gesture almost affectionate. Then she turned and walked back through the reeds, the foliage swallowing her slender form in the blue suit and sheer sarong. She left without a backward glance.
He was alone.
He slumped against the boulder, his forehead pressed to the cool stone. He waited, listening to his own heart slow. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving the vivid, stinging map of the reed across his backside and a deep, shuddering humiliation that curled in his gut. And beneath that, undeniable, was a thread of dark, secret thrill.
He pushed himself upright, wincing as the fabric tugged. He took a few tentative steps. The pain was a sharp, reminding presence with every movement. He forced a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked back toward the sound of the water.
Emerging from the reeds, the sunlight felt like an interrogation. He squinted. The scene on the beach had evolved.
Ahsoka and Rey were engaged in a furious game of keep-away with a bright yellow inflatable ball, using the Force to lob it over each other’s heads. Barriss was lounging on a towel, reading a datapad. Luminara and Shaak Ti were ankle-deep in the water, talking quietly. Padmé was now in her skirted black suit, applying sunscreen to Bultar Swan’s back while Depa Billaba looked on.
No one looked at him as he trudged across the sand. He felt hideously visible, convinced the welts were glowing through the fabric.
He reached the towel he’d claimed earlier and lay down on his stomach, the position a relief. He buried his face in his folded arms, hoping to disappear.
The hope lasted about ninety seconds.
“So,” Ahsoka’s voice came from directly above him. He felt a shadow fall over him. “Get lost on your way back from the ‘fresher?”
He turned his head, one eye peering up. She stood over him, dripping lake water, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes. Rey flanked her, looking curious.
“Just needed a minute,” Charlie mumbled into his arm.
“A minute for what?” Ahsoka pressed. She nudged his hip with her foot. “You’re lying funny. You get into a fight with a rock crab?”
“Leave him be, Ahsoka,” Barriss called from her towel, not looking up from her datapad. “He’s probably communing with the sand fleas. A new meditation technique.”
“Yeah, communing,” Charlie muttered.
Ahsoka, however, was not one to leave things be. She dropped to her knees beside him in a fluid motion. Her eyes, sharp and tracking, scanned him. They fixed on the back of his shorts, where the fabric stretched tight.
Her smirk vanished, replaced by a look of genuine, delighted surprise. “Whoa.”
“What?” Rey asked, crouching down.
“Look,” Ahsoka said, poking a finger at the air just above Charlie’s rear. “The pattern. You can totally see the lines through the fabric. Raised and everything.”
Charlie groaned, sinking deeper into the towel. “Ahsoka, don’t—”
“Someone’s been a naughty Padawan,” she sang, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Let me guess… Auntie Mon found you with your hand in the cookie jar? Or was it the cookie jar’s changing room?”
Rey’s eyes widened with understanding. She’d seen him lingering. She’d seen Mon follow. “Oh,” she said, a slow smile spreading. “That kind of communing.”
The attention was drawing looks. Padmé glanced over, her expression neutral but her eyes keen. Bultar Swan snorted. Depa Billaba raised a graceful eyebrow.
“It’s not what you think,” Charlie said, the protest weak.
“It’s exactly what we think,” Ahsoka countered. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a theatrical whisper. “How many? They look… thorough.”
“I didn’t count!”
“Ten?” Rey guessed.
“At least twelve,” Ahsoka judged, her head cocked. “Nice groupings. Very disciplined. Classic Mon Mothma efficiency.” She sighed, as if appreciating a fine piece of art. “You’ve been properly calibrated.”
Shaak Ti’s shadow joined Ahsoka’s. The Togruta Master looked down at her prone Padawan, her warm expression tinged with amused understanding. “I did warn you about wandering off, young one. The flora here can be… surprisingly punitive.”
The gentle teasing was a blanket over him, somehow worse than outright mockery. It was acknowledgment. He was part of the game, a player who had just lost a very visible round.
“I think,” Shaak Ti said, her tone shifting to something lighter, “that what our toasted friend here needs is a cooling-off period.” She looked out at the lake, where Aayla and Luminara were now floating peacefully. “Aayla! A moment, please!”
The Twi’lek Knight paddled over and waded out, water streaming from her lekku. “Master?”
Shaak Ti gestured to Charlie. “Our Padawan has overheated. I believe a proper, full immersion is in order. To soothe his… inflamed temper.”
Aayla’s sapphire eyes lit up. She understood instantly. “Of course. A medicinal dunking.”
Before Charlie could react, two sets of hands were on him. Ahsoka grabbed one arm, Aayla the other. They hauled him to his feet.
“No, wait, I’m fine—!” he yelped, but they were already marching him toward the water, his protests lost in the sand.
“Doctor’s orders,” Aayla said cheerfully.
“Just think of it as hydrotherapy,” Ahsoka added.
They didn’t stop at the edge. They marched him straight in, past the shallows, until the water was at their thighs. The cool lake was a shocking relief on his burning skin for a fleeting second.
Then, in unison, they swung him.
“One for each stripe!” Ahsoka crowed.
They flung him backwards. He hit the water with a colossal splash, the world going silent and cool and green. He sank, the sudden cold a balm and a shock. He pushed off the sandy bottom, breaking the surface with a gasp.
The laughter from the beach was open and full now. He treaded water, seeing them all arrayed on the shore: Rey grinning, Barriss finally looking up from her datapad with a dry smile, Padmé shaking her head, Mon Mothma watching from her towel with a serene, satisfied expression that promised this was only the beginning.
He swam back toward the shallows, the sting in his backside muted by the cool water. Ahsoka waded out to meet him, offering a hand he didn’t take.
“Feel better?” she asked, her grin infectious.
He splashed a handful of water at her face. She yelped, then laughed, shoving a wave back at him.
The game, it seemed, was far from over. He was in it. All the way.
All the way.
The cool lake water was a temporary anesthetic. Charlie waded, each movement a careful negotiation with the fabric of his shorts and the skin beneath. Ahsoka splashed him again, her laughter bright and challenging.
"Still walking funny," she noted, circling him. "Want me to kiss it better?"
"In your dreams, Tano."
Nearby, the groups were naturally fracturing into alliances. Aayla Secura emerged from the water, shaking her lekku like a tooka, and immediately crooked a finger at Bultar Swan. "Swan! You're with me. We need to discuss a perimeter. A secure perimeter."
Bultar’s competitive grin was instant. "Secure from what?"
"From whatever those two are plotting," Aayla said, nodding toward where Barriss had finally set her datapad aside and was now in quiet conference with her Master, Luminara. The Mirialans stood slightly apart, their green faces close together, speaking in low tones. Luminara gave a single, slow nod.
"Oh, that's not good," Ahsoka muttered, watching her best friend conspire.
On the shore, Depa Billaba watched the forming teams with a master strategist’s eye. She caught Shaak Ti’s glance and offered a subtle, almost imperceptible shrug. Let them play, the gesture said.
On the wide, sun-bleached lounger, Padmé adjusted her sunglasses. The velvet cushion was warm against her back. She watched Charlie accept a tow from Rey further out into the lake, his strokes noticeably cautious.
"Something’s off with him," Padmé mused aloud, lifting a bottle of sunscreen.
Next to her, Mon Mothma reclined with elegant grace, her sheer sarong draped over her legs. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "Is it? I hadn't noticed."
Padmé squinted at her. "Mon. You dragged him into the reeds for a solid ten minutes. The whole beach heard that final splash-‘hydrotherapy’." She squeezed lotion into her palm. "What did he do?"
Mon sighed, a soft, confidential sound. She took a slow sip from her chilled drink, the condensation bright on her fingers. "The boy has a wandering eye. A dedicated, focused, and unfortunately positioned wandering eye."
Padmé sat up a little, intrigued. "Go on."
"He was posted behind those ferns by the changing area. The leafy ones with the sightlines." Mon’s voice was dry, clinical, a diplomatic report on a minor border incursion. "I observed him observing. For an extended period. The subject of his observation appeared to be you, my dear, in the midst of your sartorial transition."
Padmé’s hands stilled. Her cheeks warmed, but it wasn’t entirely from the sun. "He was watching me change?"
"Not just watching." Mon turned her head, her gaze sharp behind her lenses. "Studying. With the intense concentration of a Padawan in his first lightsaber form. I believe he was attempting to commit the architectural details to memory."
A laugh burst from Padmé, sudden and rich. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. "He did not."
"He absolutely did." Mon’s smile became a thing of quiet triumph. "I allowed him to complete his… reconnaissance. One should never interrupt an artist at work. Then I escorted him to a more private venue for a critique."
Padmé looked back out at the lake. Charlie was now clinging to the yellow inflatable ball, using it as a buoyant shield against Rey’s splashes. Every so often, he’d shift and a wince would briefly tighten his features. The amused warmth in Padmé’s chest coiled tighter. "And your critique was… physical?"
"Pedagogical," Mon corrected gently. "A series of concise, unambiguous notes on the difference between appreciation and intrusion. Delivered via local foliage." She took another sip. "He took his instruction fairly well. Quiet. A few stubborn tears, but no outright pleading. There’s steel under that charm."
"You sound impressed," Padmé teased, lying back down, her mind picturing the scene in the hollow: the rough stone, the sharp whistle of the reed, the boy’s stifled gasps.
"Observation is a critical skill for a politician and a Jedi," Mon said, her tone shifting to something more contemplative. "He simply needs to learn its ethical application. And its consequences."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, basking in the dual heat of the sun and the shared secret. Padmé watched Charlie now trying to overturn Ahsoka from the float, his earlier gingerness forgotten in the competitive scramble. His laughter carried across the water, clear and unguarded.
"He’s resilient," Padmé said, almost to herself.
"Mm." Mon agreed, a low, satisfied hum. "And now he’s properly motivated. A little sting of remorse—or rather, rear—can focus the mind wonderfully."
In the water, the game had escalated beyond simple splash fights.
"Now!" Barriss’s voice, calm and clear, cut across the noise.
From her spot standing knee-deep, Luminara lifted a hand. It was a subtle gesture, a mere twisting of her wrist.
Thirty feet away, Bultar Swan, who was creeping toward Aayla with a handful of dripping lakeweed, suddenly yelped. Her dark blue swimsuit bottom snapped inwards with a decisive thwung, riding up with impossible precision. She stumbled, splashing into the shallows.
"An invisible hand?" Aayla crowed, hands on her hips. "A classic, Barriss! But predictable!"
While Bultar flailed, gasping about violations of the Geneva Conventions, Aayla retaliated. Her blue eyes narrowed in concentration. Her own hand flicked outward.
On the shore, Depa Billaba was reaching for her towel. The luxurious, folded cloth suddenly unspooled itself with a life of its own. It snapped through the air like a cream-colored serpent, its tip lashing once, twice against the back of Depa’s thighs with soft, stinging cracks before flopping harmlessly to the sand.
Depa jumped, a most un-Jedi-like sound of surprise escaping her. She spun, her braided crown pristine, her eyes wide. Then she saw Aayla’s defiant grin across the water. A slow, appreciative smile spread across Depa’s own face. The game was acknowledged.
Charlie saw it all from the float, a momentary truce called in his tussle with Ahsoka. This was pranking elevated to an art form—clean, deniable, executed with terrifying precision. He felt a surge of admiration mixed with acute vulnerability. His own backside throbbed in sympathy with Bultar’s wedgie and Depa’s striped thighs.
"See what happens when you get caught?" Ahsoka whispered, treading water beside him. Her tone was light, but her gaze was on Barriss, already plotting their countermove. "You get everyone else inspired."
Luminara, having executed her part, now folded her hands serenely before her as if she’d done nothing more than adjust the light. She caught Charlie looking. Her tattooed face offered a small, serene smile that held the faintest ghost of a wink.
The prank war had officially begun. Alliances were fragile. The entire beach was the battlefield.
And Charlie, nursing his secret, stinging lesson, realized he was now a primary target for all sides.
The realization was a cold stone in his gut, distinct from the lake’s chill. He watched Barriss help a sputtering Bultar to her feet, the Jedi Knight’s suit still wedged in a frankly impressive display of fabric engineering. He saw Depa Billaba now flexing her fingers, her eyes tracking Aayla Secura’s every move with new interest. The air crackled with unspent potential, a playground turned proving ground. Every laugh felt like a targeting signal.
Charlie paddled the float toward shore, a retreat he hoped looked strategic. His backside protested each kick, a persistent, radiating ache that sang a duet with his humiliation. He needed cover. Solid ground.
On the lounger, Padmé watched the chaos unfold with a diplomat’s detached amusement. The systematic wedgie, the towel whip—it was all so… formalized. A tradition. Her gaze drifted from Bultar’s flustered indignation to Mon Mothma’s placid expression. A connection sparked.
“You know,” Padmé began, her voice lazy with sun and suggestion. “All this… structured embarrassment. The precision of it. It reminds me of Satine.”
Mon turned her head on the cushion, her ginger hair a dark flame against the white. “Duchess Kryze?” Her eyebrow arched, a silent prompt.
“Mm. My friend had a… talent. A magnetism for it.” A genuine giggle escaped Padmé, unguarded. “She’d find herself on the wrong end of a wedgie in the most improbably dignified situations.”
Mon’s serene mask slipped into open curiosity. She pushed her sunglasses onto her head. “No.”
“Yes!” Padmé shifted onto her side, propping her head on her hand. The memory warmed her more than the sun. “We were at the Lorrdian diplomatic summit. All stone pillars and whispered accords. Satine was giving a blistering critique of trade tariffs in that ice-queen voice of hers.”
She paused for effect, watching Mon lean in.
“She turned to make a point to the Chancellor, took one step, and just… squeaked. This tiny, choked sound.” Padmé’s eyes sparkled. “Her skirts were layered, all that elegant mourning gown fabric. Someone—never identified—had used a servodriver’s magnetic gripper, remote-operated, to snag the innermost layer of her leggings right up the… well. The pinnacle of efficiency.”
Mon’s hand flew to her mouth, but her laughter escaped, a bright, unrestrained sound that turned a few heads. “She didn’t.”
“She did! She had to finish her address pinned to the podium, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her cheeks the color of a Naboo sunset.” Padmé was laughing fully now, the image vivid. “The most powerful woman in the sector, utterly derailed by a phantom underpants attack.”
“Tell me another,” Mon demanded, her voice low and eager.
“Okay, okay.” Padmé dabbed at her eyes. “There was the time on the Coruscant Princess luxury liner. Formal dinner. She was wearing those fitted white trousers, the ones that made her look like a sculpted angel of justice.”
Mon nodded, remembering the outfit.
“The dessert course.” Padmé’s grin turned wicked. “A service droid rolls by. It suddenly pivots, its little manipulator arm darts out, hooks the waistband of those pristine trousers, and gives a perfect, swift tug. Yoink.” She mimicked the motion. “From across the room! It left her with a visible, immediate, and profoundly lopsided… situation. She had to walk out backward, claiming a sudden migraine.”
Mon Mothma was breathless with laughter, a rare sight. Her shoulders shook. “The droid! That’s diabolical.”
“She blamed Obi-Wan for weeks. He was innocent, for once.” Padmé sighed, content. “She carries herself with such unshakeable grace. It creates a… a vacuum. A gravitational pull for mischief. You just want to see that perfect composure crack.”
“A universal constant,” Mon agreed, catching her breath. Her gaze drifted to the water, where the younger Jedi were now forming wary, grinning alliances. “The dignified must occasionally be… de-throned. For their own character development, of course.”
“Of course.” Padmé’s smile softened. “You know, she’d hate this beach. The sand. The informality.”
“Precisely why she needs to be here,” Mon said, her tone decisive. She reached for her small, elegant bag and pulled out a compact holocomm. “A change of scenery. A break from the endless gray of Sundari. And an opportunity to… broaden her experiences.”
Padmé’s eyes lit up. “You’re terrible. I love it.”
Mon activated the comm. The blue light shimmered. After a moment, a figure resolved in the air above the device—tall, clad in austere gray, blonde hair swept back with severe perfection.
“Senator Mothma,” Duchess Satine Kryze’s hologram said, her voice cool and melodic. “To what do I owe the interruption? I am in the midst of reviewing security protocols for the—” She stopped, her digital eyes taking in the backdrop: sand, water, Padmé in a swimsuit smiling like a tooka with a secret. “...Where are you?”
“Naboo, your grace,” Mon said, her voice warm. “We’re taking a brief respite. Padmé is here with me.”
“Satine!” Padmé waved. “You look suffocated by duty. You should join us.”
Satine’s holographic form seemed to stiffen further. “On a beach? You are joking.”
“Not at all,” Mon continued. “It’s… educational. A fascinating study in interpersonal dynamics and stress relief. Quite bipartisan.” She glanced meaningfully at Padmé.
“And!” Padmé added, leaning into the comm’s field. “It’s perfectly safe. Very secure. No servodrivers. No rogue dessert carts. I’ve checked.”
A flicker—something raw and undignified—passed over Satine’s holographic face. It was there and gone, replaced by glacial control. But they had seen it. The memory of the phantom wedgies lived in her too.
“My schedule is impossibly—”
“Your schedule is a self-imposed prison,” Mon interrupted gently, but firmly. “A leader who cannot unbend will break. Consider it a diplomatic outreach. To friends.”
Satine was silent. Her gaze moved between their faces, searching for the trap. The promise of protocol, of control, warred with something else—the faint, buried echo of shared, humiliating laughter from years past.
On the sand, Charlie finally reached shallows. He stumbled onto the beach, water streaming from him, his body a catalog of fresh discomfort. He saw the hologram, the elegant woman in gray, and felt a new, peculiar sense of dread. More players. More witnesses.
Ahsoka materialized beside him, following his gaze. “Who’s that?”
“Trouble,” Charlie muttered, wringing out his shirt. “The fancy kind.”
In the blue glow of the comm, Satine Kryze let out a breath so subtle it was almost invisible. “Very well,” she said, the words crisp. “I will… consider a brief visit. For diplomatic continuity.”
“Wonderful!” Padmé beamed. “We’ll send you the coordinates. Pack something you don’t mind getting… sandy.”
The commlink ended. Mon and Padmé looked at each other, a universe of unspoken glee between them. The game had just expanded. The board now stretched to a pacifist duchess’s throne room.
Charlie lay back on his towel, the sun baking his closed eyelids. The sting on his skin was fading to a warm, persistent reminder. The laughter around him was closer, sharper. He heard the splash of a new body diving in, a challenge called, the swift thwip of a towel finding its mark followed by a yelp that was half outrage, half delight.
He didn’t need to open his eyes to see it. He could feel it in the air, a gathering charge. The calm was a illusion. The peace was a prelude. Somewhere above, a shuttle was already plotting its course, carrying a new kind of gravity toward them.
He smiled, just a little, into the crook of his arm.