Chapter 7: The Tribunal on the Sand
The return to the main beach felt less like a walk and more like a procession. Padmé led, her bare legs cutting through the shallow water with a senator’s poise, the wet black fabric of her swimsuit clinging to her form. Charlie followed, a pace behind, his shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the prints his boots left in the wet sand. The air, previously filled with shrieks and splashes, had settled into a watchful quiet.
They had regrouped.
The women were no longer scattered. They formed a loose, purposeful semicircle on the sand near the loungers, a council of varying dispositions. Towels were wrapped around shoulders, robes hastily donned, but the atmosphere was far from relaxed. It was charged with the eager, vengeful energy of a jury that had already reached a verdict.
Luminara Unduli stood at the informal center. She had managed to reclaim her robes, which fell in serene, dry lines around her tall frame, a bastion of restored order. Her green hands were clasped before her, her tattooed face a mask of contemplative calm. Yet her pale eyes, fixed on Charlie’s approach, held a glint of something drier than disapproval. Amusement, perhaps, at the entire undignified circus.
Flanking her were Mon Mothma and Duchess Satine. Mon Mothma had her sheer sarong tied neatly around her waist over her dark blue swimsuit, her ginger hair miraculously undisturbed. She watched with the calm, knowing expression of an aunt who had seen this coming. Satine stood with her arms crossed, a pale, elegant statue in a simple wrap. Her composure was absolute, but the faint pink high on her cheekbones betrayed the recent memory of her very public exposure.
The others filled the arc: Aayla Secura, lekku swaying, a bold smile playing on her blue lips; Shaak Ti, her montrals tilted in a semblance of maternal disappointment that didn’t reach her warm eyes; Depa Billaba, looking regal and faintly exasperated; Rey, her scarred arm crossed over her chest, trying and failing to hide a grin; Barriss Offee, standing near her master, her expression the picture of deadpan innocence; Ahsoka, practically vibrating with competitive glee; and Riyo Chuchi, her large amber eyes wide with fascinated curiosity.
Bultar Swan stood slightly apart, near the tree line. She was dressed now, in simple trousers and a tunic, but her posture screamed violence. A faint, fresh bruise was visible on her inner thigh. Her sharp brown eyes burned into Charlie with a heat that could melt durasteel.
Padmé guided Charlie to the center of the sandy semicircle, a space that felt exponentially larger than the entire beach. She placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder, signaling his containment. “The fugitive has been apprehended,” she announced, her voice carrying clearly. “I found him hiding in the eastern inlet.”
“Hiding is a generous term,” Luminara said, her voice a low, melodic contrast to the lapping waves. “More like blundering into the one place guaranteed to ensure his capture.” She stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over the assembled women. “It seems we have a matter of discipline to address. While the Jedi Council does not typically convene for matters of… beachfront misconduct, the scale of the transgression warrants a collective response.”
From Charlie’s Perspective:
The circle of faces was a kaleidoscope of judgment. He saw Ahsoka’s smirk, Rey’s suppressed laughter, Shaak Ti’s knowing look, Bultar’s murderous glare. The sand under his boots felt unstable. Padmé’s hand on his shoulder was the only anchor, and even that was part of the tribunal.
“The charges,” Luminara continued, as if reading from a holopad, “are thus: The unauthorized and reckless use of a Force-powered tidal surge, resulting in the non-consensual disrobing of twelve individuals. The creation of a public nuisance and a significant breach of decorum. And,” she added, her eyes narrowing the slightest fraction, “the willful incitement of chaotic energy in a place of intended repose.” She turned her gaze fully on Charlie. “How do you plead, Padawan?”
The formal language was absurd, layered over the ridiculous truth of what he’d done. It made it both more serious and more hilarious. He cleared his throat. “Guilty, Master Unduli.”
A soft murmur, a ripple of satisfaction, went through the circle.
“A swift confession,” Luminara noted. “That speaks to some remaining sense. The question remains: suitable sentence.”
Mon Mothma spoke then, her tone thoughtful, as if considering agricultural tariffs. “Traditional imprisonment seems excessive. Community service is… vague.” A small, crisp smile. “I propose the punishment fit the crime. It was a collective humiliation. Therefore, justice should be collectively administered.”
Duchess Satine gave a single, dignified nod. “Each aggrieved party is owed a measure of restitution. A chance to restore… balance.”
Barriss Offee, unable to help herself, murmured to Ahsoka just loud enough to be heard, “She means each of us gets to prank him back.”
Ahsoka’s grin widened. “I call dibs on a swirlie.”
“Order,” Luminara said, though her lips twitched. She looked at Charlie. “The tribunal agrees. For your crimes against the assembly, you will submit to one corrective measure from each person you victimized. To be carried out now, publicly, so all may witness the restoration of equilibrium.” Her serene eyes held his. “Do you accept this sentence?”
He had no choice. He saw Bultar’s fists clenching. He felt Padmé’s reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, a silent promise that her turn would be gentle. He saw Shaak Ti’s eyebrow raise, a master awaiting her student’s choice.
“I accept,” Charlie said, his voice surprisingly steady.
From Luminara Unduli’s Perspective:
The entire proceeding was, of course, ludicrous. Yet, there was a catharsis in it, a structured release for the mild trauma he’d inflicted. She would never admit it, but the sight of Depa Billaba scrambling to cover herself had been quietly priceless. Allowing this ritual satisfied the younger ones’ thirst for revenge without letting it fester into real anger. It was, in its own juvenile way, a lesson in consequences. She would maintain the façade of the impartial judge. That was her role.
“Very well,” Luminara said. “We shall proceed in an orderly fashion. Who wishes to claim the first measure of restitution?”
Aayla Secura didn’t step forward so much as she flowed, her movement a dancer’s ease that brought her directly in front of Charlie before anyone else could blink. Her blue eyes sparkled. “I believe I will. My grievance is acute. You saw me at a vulnerable moment, young Padawan.” She placed a hand on her hip. “I think it’s only fair I return the favor.”
Charlie’s eyes widened slightly. Aayla’s idea of ‘fair’ was notoriously creative.
With a wicked smile, Aayla reached out, not with her hands, but with the Force. A simultaneous, telekinetic tug at his belt and the fastenings of his trousers. The cloth rasped, and with a sudden, breath-stopping rush of air, his trousers and underwear were yanked down to his knees in one smooth, brutal motion.
The cool lake breeze kissed his exposed backside. A unified gasp, followed immediately by a wave of laughter, erupted from the circle. Riyo clapped her hands over her mouth, her blue skin darkening with a blush. Satine averted her eyes with a practiced, weary sigh. Bultar’s scowl deepened, but her eyes dropped to the revealed skin.
“There,” Aayla said, admiring her handiwork. “Vulnerability established.” Then her hand, not the Force, came up in a sharp, swift arc.
SMACK!
The sound was crisp, a clean pistol-crack across the quiet beach. The spank was not playful; it was a stinging, precise impact that painted a sudden, hot bloom of pain across his left cheek. Charlie jerked forward with a bitten-off yelp, his face flushing crimson.
Aayla leaned in, her voice a silken whisper for him alone. “That’s for the sand in places sand should never be.” She stepped back, winking at the applauding Rey. “My restitution is satisfied.”
The spell of formal tribunal broke instantly. The circle loosened, becoming an eager audience.
“My turn!” Rey announced, stepping forward, her scavenger’s mind already ticking. She didn’t bother to pull his trousers up. Instead, she pointed a finger at a nearby patch of sand between Charlie and the water’s edge. “You see that spot? Stand there. On one leg.”
Wincing, Charlie hobbled the few steps, trousers around his knees, and lifted a leg. The pose was absurd, profoundly embarrassing, his balance precarious.
Rey concentrated. With a subtle nudge of the Force, she caused the wet sand beneath his bare foot to liquefy and shift minutely, just enough to destabilize him. He wobbled, arms windmilling, before tumbling sideways into the shallow water with a mighty splash. He came up sputtering, soaked, his pants now thoroughly waterlogged and clinging.
Rey beamed. “Balance in all things, Padawan. Consider it a lesson.”
Laughter rolled across the beach. Even Luminara covered a smile with her hand.
Shaak Ti was next. She approached her dripping student, her expression soft. “Oh, my poor Padawan,” she cooed, reaching to pull his trousers back up for him. Her hands were gentle, motherly. She fastened his belt. He looked at her, hopeful for mercy.
Her warm smile never changed as her mind brushed his with a focused, telepathic caress. It was a feather-light, insistent touch in a very specific, private area.
Charlie’s eyes flew wide. He sucked in a sharp breath. He could feel his body betraying him instantly, responding to the invisible, skillful manipulation. The front of his damp trousers tented prominently, unavoidably.
Shaak Ti leaned close, her montrals framing his scarlet face. “A visible reminder of who holds the power here, my dear,” she whispered sweetly. “Now stand there and think about the consequences of your actions.” She gave the conspicuous bulge a pat that was not at all motherly, then turned and walked back to her place, leaving him standing in agonizing, obvious arousal.
The whoops and catcalls from Ahsoka and Aayla were deafening. Bultar snorted in derisive amusement. Padmé watched, her own cheeks pink, her expression unreadable.
Duchess Satine approached with measured steps. “Such vulgarity,” she stated, regarding Charlie’s predicament with icy detachment. “My grievance is one of dignity. You stripped me of it. Therefore…” She stopped before him. With a swift, graceful motion born of a thousand similar indignities, she reached behind him, grabbed the waistband of his trousers and underwear at the back, and executed a perfect, powerful wedgie.
The fabric vanished into the cleft of his buttocks with a ruthless thwip. Charlie yelped, rising onto his toes as the severe upward pull strained the seams and hoisted his damp clothes into a brutally intimate configuration.
Satine adjusted her wrap, satisfied. “Now you may share in the discomfort of an undignified presentation. We are even.”
As Charlie squirmed, Mon Mothma glided forward. She surveyed him, the wedgie, the tented trousers, with a clinical eye. “You seem a mess, dear boy. Overstimulated and undignified.” From the pocket of her sarong, she produced a small, elegant tin. “Auntie Mon will help.” She opened it, revealing white talcum powder. “This will soothe the chafing from the Duchess’s… adjustment.”
Before he could protest, she stepped behind him, yanked his trousers and underwear down to his thighs again, and began dusting his reddened, wedgie-sore backside with the cool powder. The act was methodical, infantilizing. She coated both cheeks thoroughly, the white powder stark against his skin, making him look like a giant, errant baby. She even gave a few pats, sending up little clouds of it.
“There,” she said, dusting her hands. “All better. Don’t sit on anything nice.”
The laughter was unrestrained now, howling and genuine. Riyo was giggling so hard she had to hold onto Barriss. Depa Billaba was shaking her head, her shoulders trembling.
Barriss stepped up, her face a placid green mask. “My grievance is simple,” she said in her calm, deadpan voice. “You caused a scene that resulted in my own master seeing me in a state of undress. This is… displeasing.” Her hand shot out, not to spank, but to deliver two rapid, pinpoint flicks of her fingernails to the very tops of his thighs, just below his powdered buttocks.
It was a startling, nerve-jangling pain that made him jump and dance sideways. “A classic Mirialan correction for embarrassment,” Barriss explained blandly. “Consider the debt paid.”
Ahsoka practically skipped forward. “Finally! My bet with you last week said the loser gets a lakeside swirlie. The wave mess doesn’t count. I’m claiming my prize.” She didn’t ask. She used the Force, pushing him off-balance while grabbing his shoulder, guiding his stumbling run straight into the shallows. She planted a hand on the back of his head and shoved his face into the water, holding it for a three-count before letting him up, gasping and dripping.
“Ha! Victory!” Ahsoka crowed, offering him a hand up he was too embarrassed to take.
Depa Billaba came forward last among the Jedi. She looked at him, at the powder, the wet hair, the pathetic state of him. She sighed. “I find myself with no desire to further embellish this… tableau.” Instead, she reached out and with a sharp, quick motion, snapped the waistband of his underwear against the small of his back. The sting was surprising and acute. “A punctuation mark. Let this be the end of it.”
All eyes turned to Bultar Swan, who still stood smoldering at the edge of the trees. The laughter died down.
Her walk was a stalk. The circle parted for her. She stopped inches from Charlie, her eyes drilling into his. The memory of the clearing, of her thighs around his head, of his teeth in her flesh, hung between them like a poison.
She said nothing. She simply drew back her hand and slapped him across the face.
It wasn’t a playful tap. It was a solid, ringing blow that snapped his head to the side and left his ear buzzing. The beach went utterly silent.
“We are not even,” Bultar hissed, her voice low and throbbing with promised future violence. “That was just for the bite.” She turned on her heel and walked away, disappearing into the foliage without a backward glance.
A collective, held breath was released. The tension she left behind slowly dissipated, softened by the warm sun and the absurdity of Charlie’s overall condition.
Padmé finally moved from her position. She approached him, her expression once more a blend of compassion and authority. She used the edge of her hand to gently wipe a streak of talcum powder from his cheek, then straightened his tunic. “You took your medicine quite well,” she said softly, for his ears only. Then, louder, to the group: “Justice has been served. I declare this tribunal adjourned.”
The formality collapsed into cheerful chaos. Aayla called for a swim to wash off the powder. Rey helped a sputtering Charlie to his feet. Ahsoka flung an arm around Barriss, already plotting the next conflict. Luminara and Shaak Ti shared a look of exhausted, amused tolerance.
As the group dispersed toward the water, laughter ringing out once more, Charlie stood for a moment in the churned sand. His face stung, his backside throbbed, his clothes were wet and powdered, and he was painfully, visibly aroused. He was a monument to total defeat.
And yet, as he watched Padmé smile at him before diving into the lake, as he heard the genuine, unmalicious laughter around him, a slow, aching smile spread across his own face.
He was, undeniably, one of them.
He stood there, a monument to his own ridiculous suffering, and let the smile stay. The sting on his cheek from Bultar’s slap pulsed in time with the deeper, throbbing heat across his backside. Powder itched in unmentionable places. His trousers were a damp, clinging ruin. And yet, the rigid, embarrassing evidence of Shaak Ti’s telepathic mischief pressed insistently against the fabric, a stubborn counterpoint to the pain.
It was this complex, buzzing awareness of his own body that sharpened his senses to the scene dissolving around him.
“Last one in has to explain the talcum powder to Master Yoda!” Rey shouted, already sprinting for the lake. Her fingers went to the tie of her wrap, and with a practiced flick, it fluttered to the sand. She wore nothing underneath. Her sun-streaked back, the scar on her forearm, the lean muscles of her legs and the soft curve of her bottom caught the golden light before she plunged into the water with a shallow dive.
That was the signal.
The remaining pretense of modesty, already threadbare, evaporated. Aayla Secura laughed, a bright, liquid sound, and simply peeled her own brief bottoms down her blue legs, stepping out of them with a dancer’s grace. She stretched, unabashed, the lines of her body a study in elegant anatomy, before wading in after Rey. Barriss and Ahsoka were a tangle of limbs, wrestling over a towel until Ahsoka won, yanking it away to reveal Barriss’s pale green form completely bare. Barriss squawked, a genuinely flustered sound, and covered herself with her hands, her deadpan composure shattered into a blush that reached her chest.
“You’re such a womp rat!” Barriss hissed, scrambling for the towel.
Ahsoka just grinned, already stripping off her own garments. “You love it, Bare-ass!”
From Charlie’s Perspective:
The world dissolved into a shimmering gallery of flesh and motion. His earlier, panicked glimpse during the wave had been a blur of shock and color. This was different. This was a deliberate, comfortable unveiling, a return to the careless state his prank had forced upon them. They were claiming it back, on their own terms, and letting him watch.
And he did watch. He drank it in.
He watched Shaak Ti help Luminara with the clasp of her robe, revealing the deep green of the older Master’s skin, the elegant tattoos that spiraled down her spine and over the serene swell of her hips. He watched Mon Mothma untie her sarong, fold it with precise care, and place it on a lounger before walking calmly into the water, her ginger hair a fiery contrast to the dark blue of her sleek swimsuit—the only one among them now still partially clothed. He watched Duchess Satine, with a long-suffering exhale, simply let her wrap fall, standing pale and statuesque for a moment before entering the lake with a dignified breaststroke that kept everything submerged.
But his eyes kept returning to Padmé.
She had waded out to where the water kissed her thighs. She looked over her shoulder at him, still on the sand. Her smile was a secret they shared. Then she hooked her thumbs in the sides of her black swimsuit. She slid it down, inch by inch, over the curves he had earlier mapped only with his panicked, muffered face. The fabric pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it, naked, and the sun gilded the water droplets on the small of her back, the perfect hemispheres of her bottom, the strong lines of her legs.
She didn’t hurry. She let him look. Then she sank into the water, turning to float on her back, her eyes closed to the sun.
The ache in his body transformed. The pain was still there, a series of sharp, insistent signatures from each woman who had punished him. But beneath it, woven through it, was a warm, golden thread of pure, overwhelmed appreciation. The slap, the spank, the swirlie, the wedgie—they were all marks of inclusion. And this view, this unashamed display, was the other side of that same coin. It was trust. It was belonging. It was, somehow, forgiveness.
A towel snapped near his ear.
“Enjoying the scenery, powder-butt?” Ahsoka taunted, materializing beside him, still gloriously nude, water gleaming on her orange skin. She followed his gaze out to the laughing, splashing women. Her tone shifted, losing its edge. “They’re not mad, you know. Not really. Even Bultar will get over it. She just needs to punch something first.”
Charlie didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. He just kept watching as Depa Billaba swam alongside Shaak Ti, as Riyo Chuchi tentatively lowered herself into the shallows, her cute, cartoony panties left in a small blue pile on the sand. The sun, the water, the symphony of unclothed bodies moving with easy grace—it was beautiful. It was home.
“Yeah,” he breathed, the word barely audible over the lake sounds and distant laughter. He wasn’t just acknowledging Ahsoka. He was accepting it all. The punishment, the pleasure, the sheer, breathtaking view. “I am.”