Chapter 4: Riyo's First Lesson
The idea, once spoken, took on a life of its own in Riyo Chuchi’s mind. Cultural context was paramount. How could she engage fully in this unique diplomatic forum without understanding its core rituals? She rose from the towel, brushing sand from her blue thighs.
“I’ll be right back,” she announced, her voice bright with purpose.
Satine’s hand shot out, catching her wrist with a grip that was surprisingly strong. “Riyo, wait. Perhaps we should discuss this.”
“But discussion is theoretical!” Riyo countered, gently pulling free. Her amber eyes shone with earnest logic. “You all said it’s a sign of affection among friends. I want to be a good friend.”
She turned and began picking her way down the warm sand toward the water’s edge, her steps light and determined. The cartoon Fathiers on her backside seemed to gallop with her resolve.
On the lounger, a silent conversation passed between the remaining women. Padmé covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Mon simply stared, a slow, inevitable smile spreading. Luminara watched with the detached fascination of a scientist observing a predictable, yet fascinating, chemical reaction.
Satine stood up. “This is a terrible idea. She has no idea what she’s asking for.” She took two steps after Riyo before Padmé’s hand gently circled her ankle.
“Let it happen,” Padmé said, her voice low. “She asked. Clearly. And those two,” she nodded toward the distant boulders where Ahsoka’s montrals were just visible, “have perfect ears. They heard her. They’ve been planning since she said it.”
Satine looked from Padmé’s knowing grin to Riyo’s retreating back, then to the cove. Her own skin prickled with a sympathetic, learned tension. She sank back onto the cushion, a strange, protective helplessness settling over her. “They’ll be gentle with her. Won’t they?”
Luminara finally spoke, her eyes closed against the sun. “One is a Jedi Padawan who specializes in explosive entrances. The other is a boy who just received fifteen strokes from a reed for misconduct. Gentleness is not the prevailing currency.”
Riyo reached the water’s edge. The cool lake kissed her toes, then her ankles. She waded in, the bottom soft and squelchy between her feet. Ahead, near the mouth of the cove, Ahsoka Tano waved, a friendly, open gesture.
“Senator Chuchi! Over here!” Ahsoka called, her voice carrying easily.
Riyo waved back, her smile widening. She approached, the water rising to her knees. “Hello! You’re Padawan Tano. I’ve heard wonderful things about your work on Kiros.”
“Oh, that was ages ago,” Ahsoka said, swimming in a small, idle circle. “Much more interesting things happening right here. Charlie was just telling me about a… a diplomatic exercise. Weren’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie, who had been pretending to examine a shell, looked up. He saw Riyo’s open, trusting face. The plan had seemed hilarious moments ago. Now, facing that guileless curiosity, a knot of guilt tightened in his stomach. His own backside throbbed in sympathetic memory. “Uh. Yeah. An exercise.”
“What kind of exercise?” Riyo asked, wading closer until the water lapped at the hem of her swimsuit bottoms. She was now within arm’s reach of both of them. “Is it about building trust? I’m very interested in trust-building protocols.”
Ahsoka’s eyes locked with Charlie’s over Riyo’s shoulder. Now, they glinted.
Charlie’s hesitation lasted a fraction of a second. Then the competitive spark, the need to prove he wasn’t softened by Mon’s lesson, overrode the guilt. He gave a slight nod.
“It’s about… understanding local customs,” Ahsoka said, her tone shifting to a teacher’s cadence. “It’s a very quick, very direct form of communication. Charlie can demonstrate. Stand right there, Senator.”
Riyo obeyed, turning slightly to face Charlie, her expression one of rapt attention. She expected a handshake. A shared meditation. Something diplomatic.
Charlie moved. He didn’t lunge; it was a quick, fluid step behind her, closing the distance in the water. His own heart hammered against his ribs. His fingers, slick with lake water, found the waistband of her swimsuit—and beneath it, the distinct, separate elastic of her underwear.
He hooked his fingers inside both layers.
“The communication is mostly tactile,” Ahsoka explained, her voice the only thing Riyo heard.
Then Charlie pulled.
It wasn’t a savage, ripping yank. It was a firm, decisive, upward hoist, leveraging his weight and the water’s buoyancy. The saturated blue fabric and the cartoon-printed cotton beneath snapped tight, driving a deep, sudden wedge into the cleft of Riyo’s buttocks.
The effect was instantaneous. Riyo was lifted onto the balls of her feet by the force, a sharp, surprised “Yip!” escaping her lips. Her hands flew out for balance, splashing the water. The sensation was a shocking, intimate pressure, a feeling of being rearranged and hoisted from within.
“Oh!” she gasped.
Charlie held it for a three-count, the way Ahsoka had held his aquatic wedgie. He felt the strain of the fabric, the utter vulnerability of his target. He released.
Riyo settled back into the water with a splash, her hands instinctively going behind her to pat at the seat of her bottoms, which were now hopelessly askew and packed uncomfortably tight. Her blue skin flushed a deeper shade of violet from her chest to her temples. Her large amber eyes were round as saucers.
Silence, save for the lap of waves.
Then, a sound bubbled up from her. It started as a hiccup, then a giggle, then blossomed into a full, unreserved peal of laughter. It was a bright, ringing sound, utterly devoid of malice or anger.
“So this is it!” she exclaimed, twisting awkwardly to try and see her own backside. “Oh, my! It’s very… specific!”
Ahsoka, who had been holding her breath, now doubled over, her own laughter joining Riyo’s. “That’s… that’s the idea!”
Charlie just stared, dumbfounded. He’d expected tears, outrage, a senator’s icy reprimand. Not this joyful, analytical delight.
Riyo straightened, still chuckling, her hands finally managing to tug the twisted fabric into a semblance of normalcy. The imprint of the wedgie, however, would linger in her mind—and on her skin. She looked at Charlie, not with anger, but with sparkling curiosity.
“Thank you for the demonstration! The tactile communication was very clear.” She blinked, then leaned forward, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. “But Master Unduli said it could be a corrective action. Was that the corrective version, or the friendly one?”
Charlie’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked to Ahsoka for help, but she was still wheezing with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes.
“I… that was the friendly one,” Charlie managed.
“I see,” Riyo said, nodding thoughtfully. The blush was still on her cheeks, but her demeanor was that of a student processing new data. “Could you demonstrate the corrective version next? So I understand the full spectrum?”
From the shore, the observers saw the sequence unfold: the approach, the sudden movement, Riyo’s tip-toe lift, the splash, and then the unexpected sound of laughter carrying clearly over the water.
Padmé buried her face in a towel, her body shaking with silent mirth. Mon Mothma let out a soft, incredulous chuckle, shaking her head. “She’s thanking them. Stars above, she’s thanking them.”
Luminara’s lips quirked. “The lesson was requested. It was delivered. No harm appears to have been done, save to the dignity of the fabric.”
Satine, however, was not laughing. She watched Riyo’s animated conversation with the two Padawans, saw the eager tilt of her head. Her own stomach clenched with a protective dread she couldn’t name. The girl’s innocence wasn’t just charming; it was a hazard. It invited escalation.
“They won’t,” Satine whispered, more to herself than the others.
“Won’t what?” Padmé asked, peeking out from her towel.
“Give her a ‘corrective’ demonstration. They wouldn’t dare.”
Ahsoka, finally regaining her breath, caught Charlie’s shell-shocked expression. She swam closer, slinging an arm around Riyo’s shoulders in a conspiratorial hug. “A corrective one is a bit more… intense. Usually involves a bit more power. A bit more… sting.” She eyed Charlie. “But Charlie’s probably all tapped out after his morning. Right, Charlie?”
The challenge was back in her tone. It stripped away his confusion. He couldn’t back down, not in front of Ahsoka, not with Riyo looking at him with those expectant, wide eyes.
“I’m not tapped out,” he said, his voice regaining some of its usual brashness. He looked at Riyo. “You’re sure? It’s different.”
“For completeness,” Riyo said, with the gravity of a researcher. “For the record.”
Charlie nodded. He pointed to a shallower, smoother patch of sandbar nearby, where the water was only shin-deep. “Stand there. Brace your hands on your knees.”
Riyo obediently waded over and assumed the position, leaning forward, presenting the blue, Fathier-adorned target. The pose was unconsciously, devastatingly vulnerable.
Ahsoka floated nearby, her smile fading into something more focused. “Make it count, Padawan. For the record.”
Charlie approached. The water swirled around his calves. This felt different than the sneaky, behind-the-back hoist. This was formal. Almost ceremonial. He hooked his fingers into her waistband once more, this time getting a solid grip on the underlying cartoon cotton.
He took a breath. He thought of the reed. The perfect, stinging spacing. He pulled, not just up, but up and out, adding a sharp, snapping motion at the apex.
The fabric shrieked its strain. Riyo gasped as the wedge seated itself far deeper, the elastic digging with a fierce, burning pressure that was no longer just surprising, but potent. He held it longer, letting the sensation burn into her awareness, a clear, unambiguous correction.
When he let go, she stumbled forward a step, righting herself quickly. Her laughter this time was breathless, mixed with a few shaky exhales. She rubbed her backside through the suit, her eyes a little wider.
“Oh! Yes, I see the distinction. The… communicative intent is much sharper.” She took a deep breath, her blush deepening again, but her smile remained, now tinged with a new, dawning respect for the action’s vocabulary. “Thank you. That was very instructional.”
Ahsoka gave Charlie a single, impressed nod. The credential had been earned, and doubled.
The credential had been earned, and doubled. Riyo, however, was no longer focusing on academic distinctions. A new, pressing reality occupied her mind. She waded a few steps, then stopped, a slight frown touching her features as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“It’s just… the fabric,” she began, her voice losing its scholarly tone and dipping into personal discomfort. “It doesn’t… untuck itself.” She tried a discreet, twisting wiggle, her hands fluttering behind her. The attempt was futile. The cartoon Fathiers remained lodged in a deep, damp crevice.
Ahsoka’s composure broke again into warm laughter. “It usually needs a manual extraction. A pick-out.”
“Oh.” Riyo considered this, then her face brightened. “Well, I should report back! They’ll want to know I completed the cultural immersion.” With a cheerful wave, she turned and began slogging back toward shore, her gait slightly altered by the persistent wedgie. The sight of her earnest, blue form hobbling eagerly up the beach, her swimsuit blatantly distorted, was a masterpiece of absurdity.
Charlie watched her go, the strange guilt returning. “We might have created a monster.”
“We educated a diplomat,” Ahsoka corrected, swimming onto her back with a satisfied grin. “Think of it as intergalactic relations.”
Riyo’s approach was heralded by her enthusiastic, breathless voice. “I understand now! The communication was very direct!”
Padmé lifted her head from her towel. Mon Mothma put down her datapad. They took in the senator’s flushed face, her sparkling eyes, and the pronounced, fabric-straining line bisecting her rear. Luminara merely observed, one eyebrow elegantly arched.
“There are apparently two primary forms,” Riyo announced, stopping before their loungers. She turned slightly, presenting her profile. “The friendly greeting, and the corrective action! I experienced both.” She patted her own backside for emphasis, as if showcasing a new accessory. “The methodology is quite innovative.”
Mon’s gaze drifted from Riyo’s beaming face to the obvious, uncomfortable predicament of her swimwear. Padmé followed her look. A silent, potent understanding passed between the two seasoned politicians. It was a calculus of mischief, opportunity, and the sheer, irresistible appeal of a teachable moment.
Satine saw that look. She knew its architecture intimately. Her spine straightened on her lounger. “No,” she stated, her voice a preemptive strike. “Absolutely not. Do not even think it.”
“Think what, Duchess?” Mon asked, her tone all innocent diplomacy.
“That look you’re sharing. The ‘practical demonstration’ look.” Satine gathered her towel around her shoulders like armor. “Riyo has received her demonstration. The lesson is concluded. We are adults.”
“But that’s just it,” Padmé said, sitting up, her eyes alight. “Riyo’s education is theoretical. She understands the receiving. What about the… aftercare?” She turned to Riyo. “You said the fabric stays tucked. Is it uncomfortable?”
Riyo’s excitement dampened, replaced by a shy, confessional tone. “A little. It’s a very… focused sensation. Like the clothing is arguing with you.”
Mon nodded sympathetically. “It can chafe. A proper resolution is a vital part of the custom.” She stood up, smoothing her sarong. Her movement was casual, but it placed her between Satine and the open beach. “Perhaps a demonstration of the remediation would be helpful. To complete the cycle.”
Satine was already scooting backward on her lounger. “I will not be the object lesson. I am the Duchess of Mandalore. We have peace treaties to consider.”
“All the more reason,” Padmé said, also rising. Her movement mirrored Mon’s, a pincer maneuver born of long friendship. “You’re a master of resolving tense situations.” Her smile was sweet, and utterly merciless.
“Luminara,” Satine appealed, looking toward the Jedi Master.
Luminara lifted a hand, a serene, yielding gesture. “I am merely an observer of cultural exchange. It does seem the pedagogical loop remains open.”
That was all the validation the two women needed. They moved with coordinated, practiced grace. Padmé’s hands were gentle but firm on Satine’s wrists, drawing them forward. Mon’s fingers hooked into the delicate, knotted strings of Satine’s white bikini bottoms at her hips.
“Don’t you dare—“ Satine’s protest was cut short by a sharp, startled gasp.
Mon pulled. The thin, white fabric, already snug, vanished into the cleft of Satine’s buttocks with a soft, swift whisper. It was a clean, efficient wedgie, performed with the precision of a parliamentary procedure. Satine rose onto her toes, her regal bearing shattered by the sudden, intimate upward yank. A blush of profound pink flooded her pale skin from her decolletage to her hairline.
Mon held it for a sustained, diplomatic moment, ensuring Riyo could study the taut lines and strained fabric. Satine stood rigid, her eyes screwed shut, her dignity held hostage by a few centimeters of thread.
“You see?” Mon said to Riyo, her voice calm and instructive. “The mechanics are universal, regardless of station.”
She released. Satine stumbled forward a step, her composure in tatters. Her hands flew behind her, not to adjust, but to cover, as if the exposure was more psychological than physical. The white bikini bottoms were now embedded, a stark line against her skin. Her pale blue eyes were wide with a familiar, flustered humiliation.
“There,” Padmé said, barely containing her laughter. “The initial communication is complete. Now, the resolution. Riyo, watch closely.”
Satine inhaled sharply, mastering herself with visible effort. The blush remained, but her shoulders squared. She turned, just slightly, toward the fascinated Pantoran. Her voice, when it came, was tight but clear. “The… extraction… is a delicate operation. You do not simply pull downward. That can cause further… friction.”
With a mortified grace, she demonstrated. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of the fabric where it disappeared, gathering the material. With a careful, sideways wiggling motion, she worked the bunched cloth free, incrementally loosening its grip from the center outward. It was a slow, oddly intimate process, performed under the watchful eyes of her friends.
A final, gentle tug brought the bikini bottoms back into their proper position with a soft snap. She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for minutes. The whole performance was a masterpiece of endured embarrassment.
“You see?” Satine whispered, her face still flaming. “Lateral motion. It minimizes the… argument.”
Riyo watched, utterly captivated. “Oh! That’s much more technical than I assumed. Thank you, Duchess! That was very generous of you to show me.”
Luminara finally made a soft, approving sound from her lounger. “A most complete seminar.” Her lips curved in a subtle, genuine smile. “Though the tuition appears… personally taxing.”
Satine shot her a look that mixed betrayal with resigned amusement, then quickly wrapped her towel tightly around her waist, hiding the evidence of her lesson. The air hummed with shared, unspoken laughter, the bond between them momentarily forged anew in the warm, forgiving light of the naboo sun.
The air hummed with shared, unspoken laughter, the bond between them momentarily forged anew in the warm, forgiving light of the Naboo sun. Satine’s flushed dignity, Riyo’s earnest note-taking, Padmé and Mon’s conspiratorial smirks—it all coalesced into a pleasant, buzzing energy that demanded release.
“It’s getting hot,” Padmé announced, fanning herself with her hand. “And I feel… sandy.”
Mon nodded, glancing toward the glittering expanse of the lake. “A cooling swim is the only logical next step. For propriety’s sake.”
The suggestion acted like a catalyst. Ahsoka, who had been floating on her back nearby, flipped upright and waved. “Race you!” she called, before diving into a sleek crawl toward deeper water. Luminara unfolded herself from her lounger with a sigh that was more theatrical than resigned, her green skin shimmering with a light sheen of sweat.
Riyo needed no further encouragement. She splashed into the shallows with joyful abandon, the lingering discomfort of her recent ‘lesson’ seemingly forgotten. Satine, still wrapped tightly in her towel, hesitated. The water looked inviting, but exposure felt risky.
“Come on, Duchess,” Padmé said, gently tugging the towel. “The water’s perfect. It’ll wash away the… tension.”
With a final, surrendering sigh, Satine let the towel drop and followed, wading in with a careful elegance that contrasted with Riyo’s splashy enthusiasm. Mon Mothma discarded her sheer sarong on her lounger, revealing her tasteful dark blue swimsuit, and walked into the lake with the poised gait of a diplomat entering a negotiation chamber.
Soon, they were all in the gentle waves. Laughter echoed differently over water, sharper and more joyous. Ahsoka challenged Riyo to a floating contest. Padmé and Mon swam a lazy parallel, discussing the upcoming senate sub-committee vote on agricultural tariffs. Satine floated on her back, eyes closed, finally relaxing. Luminara stood chest-deep, enjoying the cool silence, watching the younger ones play.
Only Charlie remained on the beach.
He sat on his towel, knees drawn up, watching the aquatic tableau. Their carefree ease grated against the itchy, remembered sting on his backside and the frustrating power dynamics. He saw Ahsoka dunk Riyo playfully, heard Satine’s faint, unguarded laugh. A restless, mischievous energy coiled in his gut. They were all together, vulnerable, unsuspecting. It was too perfect.
An idea, delicious and terrible, crystallized. He looked past the swimmers to where the lake deepened near a rocky promontory. The water there was darker, choppier. A natural shelf on the lakebed could, with the right nudge, redirect a significant volume of water.
He closed his eyes, reaching out. The Force was a living hum here, threaded through the water’s pulse and the sun’s heat. He found the pressure point, the latent kinetic energy of a rolling wave already forming near the shelf. He didn’t create it; he asked it to grow. He poured his bratty frustration, his latent desire, and his sheer competitive cheek into a single, focused push.
The water obeyed.
It began as a strange, sucking recession near their feet, a sudden drop in level that made Riyo yelp and stumble. “The water is leaving!”
Then it returned.
A wall of lake, taller than a person, swelled with unnatural speed from the deep channel. It wasn’t a tsunami; it was a single, immense, foaming curl of sapphire water, powerful and focused, rising up against the blue sky before crashing directly onto the gathered women.
The sound was a deep, crushing boom.
The force was monumental. It knocked them all off their feet, a tangle of limbs and startled shouts swallowed by the churning foam. It wasn’t just water; it was a hydraulic press, a ripping current. Fabric, tied with delicate strings and secured by slim fits, met an irresistible force.
The wave receded, rushing back to the lake with a hiss.
Where there had been a group of women in colorful swimsuits, now there was a scene of dazed, sputtering, and utterly naked figures kneeling or sitting in the shallow, frothing aftermath.
Charlie’s breath caught. His plan had worked beyond his lecherous hopes.
Padmé Amidala surfaced first, coughing, her brown hair plastered to her skull. The stylish black skirted one-piece was simply gone. The water beaded on her toned, olive-skinned shoulders and streamed down the elegant curve of her spine. She knelt, water lapping at her waist, her bare breasts exposed to the sun and his gaze, their peaks tightening in the sudden breeze. Her hands flew to cover herself, but not before he saw the full, shapely silhouette. Her face flashed through shock, then icy, regal outrage as she scanned the beach for the culprit.
Mon Mothma rose with more dignity, as if from a bath, but the deep blue suit had been ripped away, the straps torn. Her body was leaner, elegant, the skin of her torso pale and flawless against the ginger hair at her groin. Water dripped from the tips of her breasts, which were smaller, high, and perfectly shaped. She made no frantic move to cover herself, instead placing her hands on her hips, a furious, calculating glare already fixed on the distant figure of Charlie. Her nudity seemed, momentarily, like a state of deliberate, powerful undress.
Riyo Chuchi was a tangle of vibrant blue limbs. She sat in the water, blinking amber eyes, her cute cartoon panties and swimsuit bottoms whisked entirely away. Her nudity was complete and innocent, her breasts small and round, her blue skin shimmering wetly. She looked down at herself, then let out a gale of laughter, pure and unembarrassed. “It took my learning suit!” she giggled, wrapping her arms around her knees, making no attempt to hide anything.
Ahsoka Tano sprang into a fighter’s crouch, her body a taut, orange arc of readiness. Her orange and white top and bottoms were gone. The water slicked down her lean, powerfully muscled frame, over the subtle curves of her small breasts and the defined planes of her stomach. Her montrals dripped. She wasn’t embarrassed; she was hunting. Her bright blue eyes narrowed, tracking back to the beach. “You are so dead, Charlie!” she roared, the sound raw and promising.
Satine Kryze emerged like a pale, dripping ghost. Her elegant white bikini, so recently extracted, had vanished. She stood knee-deep, utterly exposed, her skin milky and smooth under the sun. Her breasts were full and heavy, their pink tips peaked from the cold water, and a shock of blond hair glistened between her thighs. Her hands instinctively crossed over her chest and below her stomach, but the pose only emphasized her vulnerability. Humiliation flooded her striking features, her pale blue eyes wide with a familiar, profound public shame, her lips trembling not from cold but from utter indignity.
Luminara Unduli rose with a slow, deliberate grace that seemed to defy chaos. The simple green wrap she’d worn was gone. Her deep green skin, marked with darker tattoos that swirled over her hips and down her thighs, was completely bare. Her figure was mature, womanly, with full breasts and soft curves. She did not cover herself. She simply stood, water streaming from her intricate facial tattoos, her expression one of deep, profound disappointment. Her gaze, when it found Charlie, was not angry. It was the calm, heavy weight of a master whose student had failed, utterly.
Further out, where the water was deeper, two more heads broke the surface. Aayla Secura shook her head, her blue lekku swinging, sending droplets flying. Her daring bikini was a memory. Her body was a dancer’s masterpiece: long-limbed, sleek, with firm, pert breasts and the vibrant blue of her skin uninterrupted from throat to thigh. She looked down, then let out a bold, ringing laugh. “Well! That’s one way to get everyone’s attention!”
Beside her, Shaak Ti surfaced with serene calm. Her red-orange skin was a shock of color against the water, her own white markings stark on her bare montrals and cheeks. Her matronly, generous curves were fully revealed, her heavy breasts floating for a moment before she stood, the water falling to her waist. A warm, knowing smile touched her lips, as if she’d expected this very outcome. She didn’t look at her own body; she looked directly at Charlie, her gaze holding a mixture of admonishment and secret pride.
Charlie drank it all in, the vivid, stolen panorama of flesh and reaction. His heart hammered with triumph and fear. The view was a breathtaking mosaic of beauty, power, and vulnerability, every detail searing itself into his memory.
Then, as one, their myriad eyes—outraged, furious, amused, disappointed—locked onto him.
The momentum of the crashing wave transferred seamlessly into the frozen moment of exposure, and then into the gathering storm of their collective awareness. Charlie was still grinning, utterly pleased with himself, alone on the golden sand.