Chapter 9: A Very Good Morning
Consciousness returned not as a sunrise, but as a slow tide of sensation, each wave warmer and more defined than the last.
Charlie’s first awareness was of suffocating softness. His face was buried, his nose and mouth pressed against warm, yielding flesh. A rhythmic, deep thrum vibrated through his cheek—a heartbeat. The scent was clean skin, lake water, and something uniquely feminine, musky from sleep. He tried to draw a proper breath and his lips brushed against a stiff peak. A nipple, hard against his cheek.
He was lying on his side, and Bultar Swan was on her back beside him. Her arm was not just draped over his head; it was hooked around it, holding him firmly against her chest. His face was wedged deep in the valley between her breasts, each breath causing them to shift and envelope him further. She slept on, her other arm flung out to the side, her face peaceful in a way he’d never seen while she was awake.
He tried to move, to lift his head an inch for air, but her arm tightened instinctively in sleep, a low, possessive grumble resonating in her chest. The sound vibrated through the very flesh smothering him. ‘Mmh. Stay.’ The word was slurred, thick with dreams.
Paralyzed by her grip and the shock of his position, another layer of awareness detonated.
His backside was warm. Exceptionally warm. Damp, even.
Ahsoka Tano had shifted during the night. She lay curled behind him, her front pressed to his back. But her face was not nestled between his shoulder blades. In the tangled, seeking warmth of the reed bed, she had burrowed lower.
Her face was buried between his bare buttocks.
He could feel the entire structure of her face: the bridge of her nose nestled firmly in the cleft, her lips parted against his perineum, her breath flowing in soft, regular gusts across his most intimate skin. It was a deep, unconscious nuzzle. She made a small, contented sound in her sleep—a muffled ‘mmm’—and her tongue darted out in a dream reflex, a wet, warm stripe that licked from his perineum up to the very pucker of his anus.
Charlie’s entire body locked. A jolt of electricity, shameful and acute, shot up his spine. His cock, already half-hard from the morning and the pressure against Bultar’s thigh, thickened to a full, aching erection, trapped between his own stomach and the soft skin of Bultar’s leg.
He whimpered. The sound was muffled by breast flesh.
Bultar stirred again. This time, her brown eyes fluttered open. They were blurry, unfocused, then cleared as she looked down at the top of his head pressed into her chest. A cascade of expressions flickered across her face: confusion, dawning awareness, a flash of her trademark indignation. Then, something else. Something assessing. Her arm did not loosen. Her fingers curled slightly into his hair.
“Comfortable?” she asked, her morning voice a dry rasp.
He couldn’t answer. He could only give a tiny, frantic shake of his head, which only made his lips rub more firmly over her nipple.
She inhaled sharply. Her eyes darkened. “Then stop squirming. You’ll wake the entire shore.”
From Ahsoka Tano’s Perspective:
The dream was nice. She was eating something sweet and warm, a Jakku sugar-stick that melted on her tongue. She nuzzled into it, seeking more of the comforting flavor. The texture was soft, giving. A faint, salty tang. In the hazy boundary of sleep, the logic of dreams began to fray. The scent wasn’t sugar. It was skin. Lake. Charlie. Her eyes snapped open.
Reality was dark, warm, and intimately specific. She knew exactly where her face was. The evidence was in the feel of the muscles under her cheeks, the heat, the faint, clean-male scent that was undeniably him. Her own breath was bouncing back at her from far too close quarters.
A hot, vicious blush exploded across her face and lekku. Mortification warred with a stubborn, competitive refusal to panic. If she jerked away, it would be an admission. A defeat. She could feel him trembling. He was awake. And he knew.
She decided to own it.
Slowly, deliberately, she exhaled one more long, hot breath against him. Then she withdrew her face with a subtle, graceful slowness, as if merely adjusting her position in sleep. She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms above her head with a loud, exaggerated yawn.
“Ugh. Someone’s elbow was in my ribs all night,” she announced to the morning air, her voice scratchy. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, refusing to look at Charlie. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
The yawn broke the spell. Around them, the nest of reeds came to life with similar motions and sounds. Rey sat up, her three buns lopsided, blinking like a tooka. Barriss was already sitting primly, picking reeds from her hair, her pale green skin flushed from sleep. Luminara was standing, shaking out her robe with a practiced snap. Shaak Ti was down by the water’s edge, already splashing her face.
Bultar finally released Charlie. She sat up, looked down at her chest, then at him, one eyebrow arched. “You drool in your sleep, Padawan.” She said it flatly, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She stood, turning her back to him, but not before he saw the faint red mark his stubble had left on the swell of her breast.
Charlie scrambled to his knees, his own face burning. The cool morning air was a shock on his damp backside. He couldn’t look at Ahsoka. He focused on finding his discarded trousers, which were still a crumpled heap on the rock.
Mon Mothma observed the entire waking ritual from her spot. She had already re-donned her robe and looked impeccably composed, as if she’d been awake for hours. “Sleep well, everyone?” she inquired, her tone genteel and utterly inscrutable.
Breakfast was a makeshift, quiet affair. A basket of sweet bread and fruits had been left by a service droid at the edge of the grove. They ate sitting on towels or rocks, the silence punctuated by the crunch of fruit and the lap of water. The intimacy of the night had retreated, replaced by a morning-after awareness that hung in the air, delicate as mist.
It was Padmé who finally cut through it. She finished a handful of berries, wiped her hands on a towel, and looked at Charlie, her eyes bright. “So. The waterfall.”
All eyes turned to her, then to Charlie.
“The… what?” he asked, his mouth full.
“The waterfall up the shore,” Padmé said, as if it were obvious. “The one with the deep pool and the jumping ledge. It’s a tradition. No visit to this lake is complete without it.” She stood, brushing sand from her legs. “And since you’re our guest of honor, having survived your… initiation… you get the first jump.”
Aayla’s grin was instantaneous. “Oh, this is a good tradition.”
“It is not a tradition,” Depa Billaba stated, though she didn’t sound opposed. “It is reckless cliff-diving.”
“Same thing,” Ahsoka said, her competitive spirit overriding her earlier embarrassment. She was on her feet, eager for a new challenge. “Bet I can do a better flip than you, Charlie.”
The group began to gather their scant belongings, the promise of a new activity dissipating the morning’s awkwardness with gentle efficiency. As they trekked along the sandy shore, the group splintered into smaller clusters.
Riyo walked beside Luminara, her voice carrying on the breeze. “Is jumping off waterfalls a normal Jedi training exercise? It seems like it would build courage. And strong legs.”
“It builds reckless padawans,” Luminara replied, but she placed a guiding hand on Riyo’s shoulder. “Stay in the shallow end of the pool, Senator. The current near the falls is strong.”
Shaak Ti fell into step beside Charlie. She said nothing for a long while, just walked, her montrals swaying. Then, softly, “You held your center last night. Amidst considerable sensory distraction.” She glanced at him. “A lesson in more than just humility.”
He didn’t know what to say. “It was… warm.”
Her laugh was a soft chime. “Indeed.”
The waterfall wasn’t towering, but it was impressive. A curtain of white water cascaded ten meters down a mossy rock face into a wide, foaming pool that was a deeper, darker blue than the lake. A natural ledge, worn smooth by countless feet, jutted out from the cliff about five meters up—the apparent jumping platform.
The air thrummed with the roar of falling water and the cool mist that coated everything.
“Right!” Padmé announced, hands on her hips. She was still in her black swimsuit, which looked somehow official. “Rules. You jump, you swim to the side, you climb out. No pushing the next person until they’re ready. And Charlie goes first.”
Aayla was already using the Force to dry a patch of flat rock, settling onto it as if for a theatrical performance. Mon Mothma found a shaded spot under a fern, looking every bit the visiting dignitary observing local customs. Bultar stood with her arms crossed, watching Charlie with an unreadable expression.
Charlie looked at the ledge. It wasn’t the height that was daunting. It was the audience. The full, focused attention of twelve women, all of whom had seen him at his most vulnerable last night, and who now expected a show.
He took a breath, felt the cool mist on his face, and started climbing the slippery, winding path up the side of the cliff. The rock was rough under his bare feet. He reached the ledge. The view was breathtaking. The entire lake sprawled below, the reed bed a small smudge in the distance. The women were colorful specks looking up, waiting.
He inhaled, bent his knees, and pushed off.
The fall was a thrilling rush of air. He tucked into a ball, hit the water with a clean, sharp impact, and plunged into the bubbles and roar. The cold was shocking, glorious. He kicked upward, broke the surface to the sound of scattered applause and whistles—from Aayla and Ahsoka, mostly.
He swam to the edge, hauled himself out, and the ritual continued.
Ahsoka went next, executing a flawless, twisting flip that drew impressed murmurs. Rey followed with a fearless, cannonball dive that drenched everyone on the nearby rocks, earning her a chorus of playful shouts. Barriss performed a precise, dignified jackknife. Even Satine, after a moment of regal hesitation, jumped with a straight, elegant posture, entering the water with minimal splash.
It was a display of casual prowess and joy. Luminara and Depa declined to jump, citing dignity, but they watched with clear enjoyment. Shaak Ti, after some theatrical coaxing from Aayla, finally ascended. She didn’t jump. She simply stepped off the ledge, her arms outstretched, and fell with a serene grace that was somehow more impressive than any acrobatics.
The mood was light, buoyant. The pool was full of laughing, swimming bodies.
Charlie, having climbed out after his third jump, sat on a sun-warmed rock beside the pool’s edge, catching his breath. He was watching Bultar climb the path for her turn. She moved with a duelist’s agile confidence.
He didn’t see Aayla approach from behind, her blue skin glistening with beads of mist.
Her movement was a blur of intent. Her hands shot out, not at him, but at the air just behind his backside. The Force gathered, invisible and potent.
Charlie felt it a second too late—a sudden, terrible, familiar pressure. The seat of his loose, wet trousers—the only thing he wore— was seized by an unseen, vice-like grip and yanked upward with phenomenal, precise force.
It was no simple tug. It was the Atomic Wedgie, perfected.
The fabric, already strained from the climbs and jumps, ripped at the seams with a sickening tear. The waistband shot up his back with brutal speed, the central seam driving deep into his cleft with the punishing efficiency of a blade. The force of it lifted him clean off the rock, onto the tips of his toes. A strangled yelp was ripped from his throat as the world dissolved into a white-hot constellation of pain centered entirely on his groin and rear. The wedgie was so profound, so total, it felt like his spine was being realigned via his rectum.
He was suspended there, helpless, on tiptoe, the shredded remains of his trousers presenting him like a horrific, plucked bird.
A beat of absolute silence, broken only by the waterfall.
Then, Aayla’s voice, rich with satisfaction. “Call it a wake-up call.”
The eruption was instantaneous.
Ahsoka howled with laughter, slapping the water. Rey snorted, dunking under to contain herself. Barriss clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Even Depa turned away, a hand hiding her smile. Mon Mothma sighed, a sound of deep, amused resignation.
Charlie hung there, tears of pain and utter humiliation pricking his eyes. He saw Bultar, halfway up the cliff, staring down, her earlier inscrutability shattered into pure, unadulterated shock. Then her shock melted, and she threw her head back and laughed, a full, rich, unfettered sound that echoed off the rocks.
From Aayla Secura’s Perspective:
It was perfect. The angle, the force, the exquisite timing—just as the camaraderie was at its sweetest peak. The rip of the fabric was music. His tiptoe pose, a masterpiece. She let him hang for a three-count, allowing the image to sear into everyone’s memory. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she released the Force grip.
Charlie collapsed onto the rock, clutching his ravaged backside, the remains of his trousers hanging in useless ribbons around his thighs. The cool air stung the abraded, throbbing skin.
Shaak Ti waded over from the pool. She looked from her crumpled, groaning Padawan to the supremely smug Twi’lek. Her expression was not angry. It was contemplative. A judge weighing evidence.
“Aayla,” Shaak Ti said, her voice cutting through the laughter. “That was… artistic.”
Aayla bowed slightly, acknowledging the compliment.
“However,” Shaak Ti continued, her tone shifting to one of academic observation. “An artist must understand their medium. And the medium, in this case, has been under considerable… strain.” She looked at Charlie, then back to Aayla. “Your technique focused solely on the vertical lift. Admirable for immediate effect, but lacking in lasting commentary.”
Aayla’s smirk faltered, replaced by intrigued curiosity. “Oh?”
Shaak Ti’s focus shifted. Her eyes narrowed, not on Charlie, but on Aayla herself. On the stylish, minimal blue bikini bottoms the Twi’lek wore.
Aayla sensed it a half-second before it happened. Her eyes went wide. “Wait—”
It was too late.
Shaak Ti’s will, as fine and unyielding as durasteel wire, wrapped around the thin side ties of Aayla’s bikini bottoms. Not to pull them up. To pull them out.
With a sharp, simultaneous twang, the ties snapped. The small scrap of blue fabric instantly lost all structural integrity. It didn’t fall slowly. It dropped like a stone, down Aayla’s thighs, to her ankles, leaving her completely exposed from the waist down in front of the entire gathering.
The laughter died.
Aayla stood frozen, her lekku twitching in shock, the waterfall mist cooling skin that had not seen direct sun in quite some time. The humiliation was not in the nudity—they had all been nude. It was in the method. The precise, surgical removal of her chosen garment, the sheer mastery of the force applied to such a ridiculous end. It was a lesson in control, delivered with devastating irony.
Charlie, from his pained heap, managed a wheezing chuckle.
Aayla looked down at her pooled bikini bottoms, then up at Shaak Ti. A slow, genuine grin spread across her face, cutting through the shock. She inclined her head, deeper this time. “Point taken, Master.”
She stepped out of the fabric, kicked it aside, and strode to the cliff path as if nothing had happened. “My turn to jump!” she declared, her blue skin gleaming in the sun, utterly unashamed.
As she climbed, the group began to chatter again, the dynamic shifted once more. The prank had been answered, not with anger, but with a superior, more sophisticated one. The balance was maintained.
Charlie finally managed to stand, wincing. He held the tattered remains of his trousers up with one hand. Padmé swam over, her expression sympathetic but eyes dancing.
“Come on,” she said, nodding toward a path leading into the ferns. “I think I saw some spare towels and robes back in the landing shuttle. Let’s get you something… less drafty.”
He followed her, limping slightly, leaving the sound of the waterfall and the joyful shouts behind. The path was soft with moss, dappled with sunlight. The pain was receding, leaving a deep, persistent ache and a strange, buoyant lightness. He had been shattered, rebuilt, welcomed, and pranked again. He was, irrevocably, one of them.
Padmé glanced back at him, a private smile on her lips. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure we can find you something appropriate.”
Her tone suggested he shouldn’t be so sure at all.
Her tone suggested he shouldn’t be so sure at all.
They walked for a minute along the fern-lined path before Padmé stopped, tapping her chin. “Actually, the shuttle’s supplies are boring. Standard-issue robes.” A mischievous light sparked in her eyes. “There’s a little boutique in Belle-12, the lakeside village. They have wonderful local fabrics.”
Charlie’s grip on his tattered waistband tightened. “Belle-12? As in, the town?”
“It’s a ten-minute walk down the shore.” She began walking backward, facing him, her smile widening. “The path is beautiful. And private.”
“I’m in rags, Padmé.”
“So shed them.” She said it as if suggesting he toss aside a wet towel. “You’re among friends here. No one will see but the nuna-birds and me.” She turned and continued walking, expecting him to follow. The decision was already made.
He stood frozen for a second, the sounds of the waterfall muffled by foliage. The cool air on his skin was a reminder of his state. With a sigh that was half-dread, half-resignation, he let the ruined fabric fall. He stepped out of the puddled trousers and left them on the moss, feeling wildly exposed despite the empty path.
He hurried to catch up to her, the soft sand and cool lake grass under his feet a strange sensation. The beach here was wider, the lake a serene blue to their right. His hands instinctively came up, one crossing his groin, the other hovering awkwardly near his thigh.
Padmé glanced over her shoulder. Her grin was immediate and brilliant. In one fluid motion, she swatted his covering hand away with a sharp, stinging slap. “What’s the point of that?” she laughed, the sound carrying on the breeze. “It’s so obvious you’re stark nude, Charlie. The world knows what you’ve got.”
He flinched, his face heating. “It just feels… weird.”
“Be proud of the body you have,” she said, her tone shifting to mock-sternness, though her eyes still sparkled. “You survived the day with it, didn’t you? It’s earned its display.” She pointed a finger at him. “Better not cover up again. That’s an order from your… temporary escort.”
He gave a bashful nod, letting his hands fall to his sides. The freedom was terrifying. Every ripple of breeze across his skin felt magnified, significant. He tried to match her casual stride.
After a few moments, Padmé realized the rhythm of his footsteps had slowed, falling behind. She turned, one eyebrow already lifting in inquiry.
He had stopped. Both hands were clamped firmly over his groin again, his knuckles white. His eyes, however, were locked lower, tracking the gentle, hypnotic sway of her black-skirted backside as she walked. The swimsuit material clung to each curve, the skirt fluttering with each step.
“Oh, you are naughty,” she breathed, her voice a mix of astonishment and delight. She walked back to him, her steps slow and deliberate. “Doubly naughty.” She fell into step beside him, their shoulders almost touching.
“I wasn’t—” he started.
“You were.” She offhandedly remarked, “Eyes front, Padawan,” as her hand swung underarm in a swift, practiced arc.
The hard slap landed on the crest of his right buttock with a sharp, satisfying crack. The force was unexpected, sending him onto his tiptoes with a bitten-off gasp. His hands flew back on instinct, cupping the stinging flesh.
That’s when Padmé saw it. Clear as day now that his hands were occupied. The full, erect evidence of why he’d started covering himself again. It stood rigidly against his stomach, utterly betraying him.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed, her voice lilting with amused, false indignation. She raised a single, elegant eyebrow. “Is that why you were so suddenly modest? Something caught your eye and… inspired you?”
Charlie’s face flushed a deep, scorching red, hotter even than the fresh handprint on his bum. He fumbled to cover himself once more, his movements frantic. “It’s not—the breeze, or—”
“The breeze?” Padmé laughed, a clear, musical sound. She began walking again, forcing him to keep up. “Let’s not blame the innocent weather. It was a very specific view, I think. Admit it.”
He shuffled beside her, mortified. “It’s just… biological. Automatic.”
“Automatic, hm?” Another slap, this one on the left cheek, just as sharp. He yelped, a cute, high-pitched sound. “So if I were to walk ahead again, your ‘automatic’ system would just… engage? Like a faulty blaster?”
“Padmé, please.”
“Please what?” A third slap, alternating back to the right. Smack. Another yelp. “Please stop pointing out the flagpole you’re pitching in my honor? Or please stop spanking the naughty boy who can’t control his… optics?”
He was breathless, from the pain, the embarrassment, the sheer absurdity. “Both?”
She grinned, relenting for a dozen steps. The lake sparkled. A waterfowl called. “You know, on Naboo, we consider unchecked staring a form of theft. You’re stealing a view without permission.”
“I have permission,” he mumbled, staring straight ahead at the distant docks of Belle-12.
“Do you?” Smack.
“Ow!Yes! You said be proud, don’t cover up! That’s… implied permission!”
“For you to be naked, not for you to get a publicly evident thrill from my backside.” Her logic was playful, inescapable. “That’s a separate infraction. A fun one, but an infraction.” She delivered her verdict with another swift slap. “Hence, corrective action.”
The rest of the walk unfolded in this cheeky, stinging rhythm. Her teasing questions about the stubborn persistence of his condition were punctuated by the crisp sound of her palm meeting his skin and his subsequent, helpless yelps. The village docks grew closer, the sounds of life beginning to reach them—distant voices, the hum of a speeder.
His skin glowed a warm pink. Her hand tingled pleasantly. A strange, charged camaraderie hummed between them, built on this bizarre economy of embarrassment and delight.
Just as the first buildings of the lakeside village came into clear view, Padmé stopped. She looked at his thoroughly spanked state, then at his still-evident arousal. She sighed, a mock-exasperated sound. “We can’t have you walking into a boutique like that. It’s a diplomatic incident waiting to happen.”
Before he could react, she stepped into the lake’s shallows. The water was cool. She cupped her hands, filled them, and flung the water directly at his midsection.
The shock was profound. He gasped, doubling over slightly. The cold did its work, the insistent thrum of desire abruptly doused. She repeated the action twice more, mercilessly, until he stood shivering, finally and utterly deflated.
“There,” she said, wiping her hands on her swimsuit skirt. “Presentable. Now, let’s go buy you some clothes you’ll probably hate.” She linked her arm through his, leading him, damp and chastened, toward the town.