Chapter 6: The Huntress Denied
The ferns were cool and damp against Charlie’s back, a stark contrast to the searing heat of Bultar’s skin pressed down on him. Her knees dug into the soft earth on either side of his hips, a living, breathing cage. The dappled sunlight played over the tense muscles of her shoulders and the smooth curves of her small breasts, which rose and fell with her quickened breath. Her eyes, dark and sharp, held a predatory glint he’d only seen in lightsaber sparring rings.
“What am I going to do?” Bultar echoed, her voice a low, husky thing. She leaned closer, the tips of her breasts brushing against his tunic. The scent of her—lake water, crushed greenery, and the clean, salty sweat of her chase—filled his nostrils. “You humiliated me. You humiliated all of us. You turned a peaceful afternoon into a… a public unveiling.” A flush, deeper than her earlier blush of shame, crept up her neck. This was a different heat. The heat of power, reclaimed and redirected. “You think you can just run after that?”
Charlie’s mind raced, sifting through quips, pleas, and threats. None seemed adequate. “It was just a prank,” he managed, the words sounding feeble even to him.
“A prank?” She laughed, a short, sharp sound with no humor. Her hand left his shoulder and wrapped in the fabric of his tunic at his chest. “A prank is a whoopee cushion. A prank is swapping out someone’s hair gel for engine grease. That…” She jerked her head back toward the beach. “That was an act of war, boy. And in war, there are prisoners. And prisoners get interrogated.”
Her free hand came up and gripped his jaw, her fingers strong and unyielding. She turned his face side to side, studying him as if he were a specimen. Her thumb brushed roughly over his lips. The intimacy of the gesture was a violation all its own, a silent claim that bypassed his clothes and went straight to his skin.
Her expression shifted, the anger simmering into something more deliberate, more cruel. A idea, dark and thrilling, visibly dawned on her. The competitive fire that always burned in her eyes flared with a new, unsettling fuel.
“You like causing embarrassment?” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. “You like making people feel exposed? Vulnerable?”
Charlie couldn’t answer. Her grip on his jaw held his words in.
“Let’s see how you like it,” she breathed. “Let’s see how you handle a little… intimate discomfort.”
In one brutally swift motion, she shifted her weight. Her knee ground harder into his left arm, pinning it definitively. Her other hand released his jaw and tangled in his dirty blond hair, fisting it tight enough to make his scalp scream. She used that grip as a lever.
She wrenched his head forward and down, off the bed of ferns, while her own body rose slightly on her knees.
Charlie’s world narrowed to a terrifying, immediate sensory overload. His face was pulled, helplessly, into the hot, shadowed space between her taut thighs. The coarse hair tickled his nose. The musky, earthy scent of her, intense and private, flooded his senses. His lips, parted in a gasp of protest, met not air, but slick, firm skin.
“No—!” The muffled sound was lost against her.
Bultar adjusted her stance, her thighs clamping against the sides of his head with formidable Jedi strength. She bore down, grinding herself against his face with a deliberate, brutal rhythm. The soft, intimate folds of her anatomy were pressed insistently against his mouth, his nose. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the wetness that coated his lips.
“Lick,” she commanded, her voice strangled, a mix of fury and something else. She ground herself harder against him. “You wanted a show? You get a participation trophy.”
From Bultar Swan’s Perspective:
The power was an electric current surging up from her core. The shock and shame of the beach, the feel of everyone’s eyes on her bare skin—it all fused and transformed in this secluded green space. Here, she was in control. His muffled struggles, the helpless movement of his head between her powerful thighs, were a balm on her wounded pride. She used him, her grip in his hair like a handle, rocking her hips. The friction sparked a low, unwanted thrum of pleasure deep inside her, a traitorous response to her own act of domination. It infuriated her. It excited her more. She chased that feeling, using the rough pressure of his face to stoke it, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “That’s it,” she hissed into the quiet glade, the words for herself as much as for him. “Make me cum, you little—”
The thought shattered.
A white-hot lance of pure, shocking pain exploded in her inner thigh.
Charlie had bitten down.
Not a playful nip. A desperate, panicked, full-clamp of his teeth into the tender flesh where her thigh met her groin.
A raw, undignified yelp ripped from Bultar’s throat. The profound, stunning pain short-circuited every other sensation—the pleasure, the anger, the triumphant dominance. Her leg instinctively spasmed, her iron-clamp thighs springing apart in a reflexive jerk to protect the wounded area.
That instant of shock and parted limbs was all Charlie needed.
From Charlie’s Perspective:
The world had become a suffocating, musky darkness of heat and pressure. His nose was blocked. His mouth was forced open against her. Humiliation burned hotter than any anger. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Panic, pure and animal, took over.
His teeth found purchase on soft, giving flesh.
He bit down with every ounce of strength his desperation could muster.
Her shriek was immediate, a sound of pure, surprised agony. The vice-like pressure around his head vanished. Light and air rushed back.
He didn’t hesitate. As her body jerked away, he shoved upward with all his might, his free arm pushing against her stomach. Off-balance and wounded, she toppled sideways with a grunt, her naked form crumpling into the ferns.
Charlie scrambled. He was on his feet before his mind had fully processed the movement, stumbling backward, his lungs heaving. His face was wet, his lips tasted of salt and her. He wiped his mouth frantically on his sleeve, the gesture futile.
Bultar lay on her side, one hand clamped over the red, already-bruising imprint of teeth on her pale inner thigh. Her face was a contorted mask of pain, rage, and a dazed, humiliated shock. Her other hand was splayed in the dirt, fingers curling into the soil.
“You… bit me,” she gasped, the words dripping with incredulous fury.
Charlie didn’t answer. He turned and ran.
He crashed through the brush, branches whipping at his arms and face, not caring about noise now, only distance. The image of her—naked, wounded, furious on the ground—burned behind his eyes.
Her roar followed him, tearing through the forest canopy. It wasn’t just a shout of anger. It was a guttural, frustrated scream that seemed to shake the leaves. “CHARLIE! I’LL KILL YOU!”
But the scream broke, halfway through, into something else. A raw, shuddering moan of thwarted need.
From Bultar Swan’s Perspective:
The pain in her thigh was a bright, clarifying star. It centered her, even as it throbbed viciously. But it was the sudden, hollow void where the building pressure had been that truly unraveled her. The sensation was abruptly, cruelly severed, leaving a physical ache so intense it was a noise in her head.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, watching his retreating back vanish into the green. Rage warred with a desperate, clawing physical demand. The denial was a physical shock, worse than the bite.
A low, involuntary whine escaped her lips. Her hand, still pressed to the throbbing bite mark, trembled.
Her other hand moved of its own volition, sliding down her stomach, through the coarse hair, finding the slick, aching flesh beneath. The touch was a lightning strike. A sob hitched in her throat, part fury, part unbearable need.
She collapsed back onto the ferns, her knees drawing up. There in the hidden clearing, naked and wounded, she frantically rubbed her clit, her movements frantic and ungraceful. She was chasing the peak he’d forced her toward and then stolen away. Her breath came in ragged, furious sobs. “You… little… brat…” she hissed to the empty air, each word punctuated by a sharp, desperate stroke.
But the climax, when it finally crashed over her, was a lonely, tense thing. It lacked the victorious release she’d imagined. It was just a mechanical end to an unbearable tension, leaving her shaking and empty in the dirt. Her furious moan echoed against the trees, a private testament to a victory that felt exactly like defeat.
She lay there for a long moment, spent and trembling, listening to the last echoes of Charlie’s flight fade into the jungle’s hum. The bite mark on her thigh pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She slowly sat up, wiping her hand on the ferns, her face a complex map of anger, shame, and a deep, unsettling hunger.
He was still running. The hunt was still on. But the game had changed.
She got to her feet, wincing at the fresh pain in her leg. She didn’t bother to cover herself. The modesty from the beach was galaxies away. Now, her nakedness felt like battle armor, a reminder of the conflict. She limped slightly as she began to move, not back toward the beach, but deeper into the woods, following the path of broken twigs and disturbed leaves he had left in his panic.
A cold, focused smile finally touched her lips. It held no warmth.
“Run all you want, Padawan,” she muttered to the shadows. “I know where you’re headed.”
The forest swallowed Charlie whole, each panicked footfall cracking twigs that sounded like blaster shots in the silence. He could still taste her on his lips, a bitter, salty tang mixed with the iron hint of blood from where he’d bitten her. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum echoing the fading, furious moan that had chased him from the clearing. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to put distance between himself and Bultar’s vengeance.
The dense Naboo foliage began to thin, the air growing lighter and carrying the familiar scent of water and warm sand. He was looping back toward the lake, but from a different angle. A small, sheltered inlet came into view, where the water was calm and a fallen log created a natural jetty. It was a place of quiet beauty, utterly separate from the chaotic main beach.
He slowed, chest heaving, and leaned against a smooth-barked tree. Safe. For a moment.
“Running only makes the sentencing worse, you know.”
The voice came from his left, calm and melodious, and it froze the blood in his veins. He turned his head slowly.
Padmé Amidala stood waist-deep in the still water of the inlet, her back to him. She was rinsing lake water from her hair, her arms raised, the movements graceful and unhurried. The black skirt of her one-piece swimsuit was gone, lost to the wave, leaving only the sleek, clinging torso portion that ended high on her hips. From behind, she was a silhouette of impossible curves against the glittering water: the narrow taper of her back, the dramatic swell of her hips, the long, elegant lines of her bare legs. Water cascaded down the perfect, rounded hemispheres of her bottom, which were fully, breathtakingly exposed.
She knew he was there. She had known.
“I wasn’t…” Charlie began, his voice hoarse.
“Of course you were.” She lowered her arms and turned, the water swirling around her. The front of the suit still clung to her breasts and torso, a stark black contrast to her nude lower half. She made no attempt to cover herself. Her expression was unreadable: a politician’s poised mask, but her brown eyes held a lively, penetrating intelligence. “You were running from Bultar. I felt her rage from here. It was… impressively vivid.” She took a step closer to the shore, the water level dipping to her thighs. “And now you’ve run straight to me.”
From Padmé Amidala’s Perspective:
She had felt the ripple in the Force, that spike of panicked defiance followed by Bultar’s blistering outrage. It had been a simple matter to extricate herself from the disorganized search, to slip away to this quiet spot to think. To clean off. Finding him blundering into her sanctuary was a delightful accident. Now, watching him stare, his face flushed, lips swollen, clothes torn from the forest—she felt a surge of proprietary authority. This was her territory, her prisoner. The feminist in her was righteously indignant. The woman who remembered the startling, thrilling breeze on her most private parts as she bent over looked at his terrified eyes and felt a different, warmer pulse entirely.
“Come here, Charlie,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
He hesitated, his eyes darting to the trees behind him.
“Bultar is still hunting,” Padmé stated, a simple fact. “Ahsoka and the others are fanning out. You are, effectively, surrounded. The only question is who collects you. I’d say you’ve landed in the most civilized corner of the trap.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “For now. Come into the water.”
Defeated, Charlie shuffled forward, his boots sinking into the soft mud at the water’s edge. He waded in until he was standing before her, the cool lake water soaking his trousers up to his knees. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He looked instead at the water beading on her collarbone.
Padmé reached out and took his chin, much as Bultar had, but her grip was not brutal. It was firm, guiding. She forced his gaze up to hers. “Now,” she began, her tone shifting into the precise, articulate rhythm of a senate address. “Let’s discuss your crime against sovereignty. My sovereignty. And the collective sovereignty of every woman on that beach.”
From Charlie’s Perspective:
Her hand was cool on his skin. Her eyes were deep, serious pools. He was acutely aware of her nakedness from the waist down, the water obscuring just enough to make his imagination scream. But her voice held him captive more effectively than Bultar’s knees ever could.
“You weaponized a natural resource—a public lake—to execute a non-consensual act of mass exposure,” she continued, her head tilted. “You used a significant Force ability not for defense, or training, or peace, but for public undressing. You objectified a dozen sentient beings for your own amusement, reducing complex individuals, leaders, warriors, and friends to… to startled bodies.” Her thumb stroked his jawline, a contradictory gesture of gentleness against the stern words. “You created a scenario where the sudden, total lack of agency was the punchline. Do you understand why that is not just a ‘prank,’ but a profound violation?”
Charlie swallowed. “I… I didn’t think of it like that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Padmé said, not unkindly. “You’re an 18-year-old boy with too much power and a knack for mischief. The thinking part is what we’re working on.” She released his chin. “You saw me, Charlie. When I bent over. You saw everything.”
It wasn’t a question. Heat flooded Charlie’s face, a blush so violent he felt dizzy. He nodded, a tiny, ashamed movement.
“That was a private view,” she said softly. “Granted without my consent. It was stolen. That makes it wrong.” She paused, letting the word hang in the air between them. The water lapped softly. “However.”
She stepped closer, the space between them vanishing. Her body was inches from his. He could feel the heat radiating from her, could smell the clean scent of her skin and lake water. Her hands came up and rested on his shoulders.
“The wave itself,” she whispered, her political demeanor melting into something far more personal, a secret shared in the quiet inlet. “Was objectively, brilliantly funny. The sheer scale of it. The execution.” A genuine laugh, low and rich, bubbled out of her. “I haven’t seen Luminara that flustered in years. And poor Satine… she wears public humiliation like another piece of jewelry, but that was a masterpiece.” She shook her head, her smile warm and breathtaking. “It was naughty. Deeply, profoundly naughty. But it was also… creative.”
The whiplash from stern lecture to conspiratorial praise left Charlie reeling. He stood frozen, unsure of his footing.
Padmé’s hands slid from his shoulders down his arms, then around his back. She pulled him into a gentle, firm hug, pressing his face against the damp black fabric covering her shoulder and chest. Her skin was warm and smooth against his cheek.
“Shhh,” she murmured, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Her other hand slid down, over the seat of his trousers, and began to rub slow, soothing circles on his bottom. The contact was intimate, forgiving, and deeply confusing. “It’s alright. The scolding part is over.”
From Padmé Amidala’s Perspective:
Holding him like this, feeling his young, tense body slowly relax into her, was its own sweet victory. The feminist lecture had been necessary, a principle she had to uphold. But this? This was the truth. His disastrous, magnificent prank had been the most exciting thing to happen to her in weeks. Feeling his heart pound against her breast, his warm breath on her skin, his lean body under her hands—it was a better reward than any formal apology. She rubbed his backside, the firm muscle under the wet fabric, a tactile reminder of his mischievous spirit. She wondered if he could feel her own heart accelerating.
“I heard about the other thing, too,” she said softly into his hair. “Mon Mothma told me. She said she had to give you quite the whipping last week for peeping on me in the senatorial pool ‘fresher.”
Charlie went rigid in her arms. A muffled, anguished groan vibrated against her chest.
“Oh, yes,” Padmé continued, her voice a playful whisper. “She described it in some detail. The specific number of strokes. The cane she used. How you danced. She said you were very repentant.” Her rubbing on his bum became a little firmer, a little more pointed. “Is that true, Charlie? Were you repentant?”
Charlie burrowed his face deeper into the soft, yielding warmth of her breasts, the thin, wet suit the only barrier. His voice was a shattered, embarrassed mumble. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Padmé. It was wrong. I shouldn’t have.”
“Look at me.” Her tone was gentle but commanding.
He pulled back just enough to look up at her face, his eyes wide with shame and something else—a desperate hope for clemency.
Padmé’s expression was soft, her smile tender and infinitely knowing. “I don’t mind you peeping, Charlie.” The admission hung in the air, simple and world-altering. “You can look at me changing whenever you want. You can look all you like.”
Charlie’s breath caught. His blush renewed itself, but this time it was mixed with a dawning, incredulous joy.
“But,” she said, her finger coming up to tap the tip of his nose. “If you get caught by Mon Mothma again, that’s your own clumsiness. And I will certainly enjoy hearing the details of your punishment from her afterward. Very much.”
The statement was a gift and a trap, permission and a tease, all wrapped in her warm, authoritative presence. A slow, wobbly smile spread across Charlie’s face, illuminating his features with relieved, boyish delight.
Padmé smiled back, her heart doing a small, happy flip. She kissed his forehead, a sweet, chaste press of her lips.
Then she sighed, the practical world rushing back in. Her hands stilled on his back.
“Now for the bad news,” she said, her voice regaining its notes of rueful command. “I can’t keep you hidden here forever. Justice, however playful, must be seen to be done.” She took a step back, though her hands remained on his shoulders. “I’m going to walk you back to the others now. You’re going to surrender to me, and I’m going to parade you right back to that beach where it all started.”
Charlie’s smile faded, replaced by a grimace of apprehension. The sanctuary of the inlet evaporated.
Padmé gave his shoulders a final, reassuring squeeze before turning, presenting him once more with the view of her bare, glistening backside as she began to wade toward the shore. “Come along, prisoner,” she called over her shoulder, her tone light but unyielding. “Let’s go face your public.”