Chapter 1: Senate Hall Humiliation
The grand hallway of the Coruscant Senate building stretched into infinity, a monument to power and bureaucracy. Polished obsidian floors reflected the flickering holographic portraits of past leaders, their stern gazes following every passerby. Towering columns of iridescent crystal seemed to hold up the very sky, framing arched ceilings lost in shadow. The air hummed with the low, serious murmur of diplomats gliding between appointments, a sound punctuated by the distant, sharp crackle of blaster fire—a training exercise in a lower hall, or perhaps something less routine. The smell of ozone and polished stone was cold, sterile.In a recessed alcove, the air was different. It crackled with a different kind of tension.
Senator Mon Mothma, her white robes a stark contrast to the dark splendor, was speaking in her measured, clear tones. “...and the trade federacy’s objections hinge entirely on the hyperspace lane tariffs, which we have already proposed—”
“A fascinating point, Senator,” Shaak Ti interjected, her voice a calm river flowing through the chatter. Her montrals, with their elegant blue and white stripes, tilted slightly as she listened, her large golden-brown eyes fixed on Mon Mothma with complete focus. Beside her, Aayla Secura stood with silent poise, her blue skin and intricate lekku markings serene, her golden eyes missing nothing.Charlie, however, was a splinter of restless energy in the serene scene. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes—a mischievous green—darting from the Senator’s face to the flow of traffic in the hall. His perpetual smirk played on his lips.He’d heard this tariff speech three times.
His gaze landed squarely on Mon Mothma. Not on her political position, but on the elegant line of her neck, the intelligence in her eyes, the way the light caught the delicate strands of her blonde hair. The Padawan’s mind, supposedly disciplined, took a holiday.
“—a recalibration of the fiscal quarter,” Mon Mothma continued.
“You know,” Charlie said, his voice cutting through the diplomatic jargon with the subtlety of a seismic charge, “for a discussion about credits, you make it sound almost poetic. Has anyone ever told you your voice is… compelling?”
The sentence hung in the air. Shaak Ti’s head turned toward him with a slow, terrifying grace. Aayla’s eyebrows, finely drawn, ascended her forehead a graceful millimeter. Mon Mothma paused, her lips parting in sheer surprise.
A deep silence, broken only by the distant echo of a boot on stone, filled the alcove.Shaak Ti did not sigh.She did not yell. She simply turned her full attention to her Padawan, and the air around them grew several degrees colder. “Padawan,” she said, the word soft and final. “A word.”
“Master, I was just—”
“Now.”
She didn’t grab his arm, but the command in her tone was a physical force. She gave Mon Mothma and Aayla a slight, apologetic bow of her head, then turned and walked with purpose toward a small service corridor whose door was slightly ajar. Charlie, his smirk finally wiped clean by a wave of cold dread, shuffled after her.
The door hissed shut behind them, muting the grand hall’s sounds. They were in a narrow, dimly lit corridor lined with power conduits that emitted a low thrum.It smelled of dust and ionized air.
Shaak Ti stopped and turned.Her expression was unreadable. “Explain.”
“I was just… paying a compliment! Building inter-governmental rapport!” Charlie offered, his bravado a thin veneer. “It’s a diplomatic strategy!”
“Your ‘strategy,’” Shaak Ti said, taking a step closer, “was to interrupt a Senior Senator with a clumsy attempt at flirtation. You embarrassed yourself, you embarrassed the Order, and you distracted from a critical negotiation.”
“Clumsy? It was charming!”
“It was inept.” She sighed, and for a moment, the stern Master faded, revealing a flicker of sheer exasperation. “Charlie, what am I going to do with you?”
Before he could formulate another quip, her hand shot out—not with anger, but with decisive speed. She caught his wrist, spun him around with a surprising strength, and guided him the two steps to a low maintenance crate by the wall. In one fluid motion, she sat and drew him down across her knees.The world tilted. The thrum of the conduits became the only sound in Charlie’s universe. “Whoa, hey, Master—wait, you can’t—this is—”
CRACK.
The first spank landed, a sharp, stinging explosion across the seat of his trousers. It wasn’t brutal, but it was shockingly firm, a crisp impact that spoke of controlled disappointment.“Ow! Kriff!”
CRACK.CRACK.Two more followed in quick succession. The sting bloomed into a steady, smarting heat.He kicked his legs, not to escape, but in instinctive protest. “This is archaic! Undignified!”
“Your behavior was undignified,” Shaak Ti replied calmly, her voice betraying no strain as her palm connected again.CRACK. “You are a Padawan Learner, not a cantina Loth-cat.” CRACK. “You will learn comportment.” CRACK.
The rhythm was methodical, the spanks falling with a precise, almost pedagogical relentlessness. The initial shock gave way to a deep, throbbing embarrassment that far outweighed the physical discomfort. He was twenty-two, sprawled over his Jedi Master’s knee like a youngling, getting a spanking in a Senate corridor.He squeezed his eyes shut.
The spanking stopped.The aftermath hummed in the air.Charlie lay still, breathing heavily, his face hot.
Then, he felt her fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers and his underwear.
“What… what now? Master, no, come on, it’s already—”
She didn’t listen. With a firm, practiced tug, she pulled both garments down to his mid-thighs.The cool air of the corridor hit his sensitized skin, and he gasped. Before he could process this new layer of humiliation, her fingers dipped into the back of his briefs, grabbed the waistband, and pulled upwards with a sharp, definitive yank.
The fabric wedged itself painfully, tightly, between his cheeks.He let out a choked grunt.
Shaak Ti guided him off her lap. He stumbled, his pants around his thighs, scrambling to haul them up over the vicious wedgie.The material was all wrong, bunched and strained. He managed to get his trousers back over his hips, but the unmistakable, tight bunching of his underwear remained, a constant, nagging reminder above his belt line.His face was blazing.Shaak Ti stood, smoothing her robes. She looked at him, and for the first time, a glint of something akin to playful satisfaction shone in her golden eyes.“Presentable?” she asked, her tone deceptively mild.
He could only glare, adjusting his tunic awkwardly.“Good. You have an apology to make.”
She led the way back into the grand hall. Aayla Secura was now leaning against a crystal column, a data-pad in her hand, though she wasn’t reading it. Her eyes, glinting with amusement, tracked Charlie’s stiff, uncomfortable walk. A slight, knowing smile touched her blue lips.Mon Mothma stood where they had left her, her hands folded. Her expression was one of polite, patient curiosity.
Charlie stopped before her, his earlier swagger utterly gone.He cleared his throat. “Senator Mothma… I offer my deepest apologies for my inappropriate and disruptive comment earlier. It was unbefitting of a Jedi Padawan and disrespectful to you and this forum.” The words, though sincere, tasted like ash.
Mon Mothma studied him.Then, a soft, unexpected giggle escaped her. “Oh, it’s quite alright, Padawan.Really.” Her eyes sparkled. “In fact, I found it rather… refreshing. A bit of honest, if clumsy, charm amid all this procedure.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone. “Far more interesting than tariff talk, I assure you.”
Charlie blinked, unsure if he was being mocked or absolved.
Then Mon Mothma’s gaze drifted past him, to where Shaak Ti stood. A look passed between the women—a look of understanding, of maternal exasperation shared. The Senator’s demeanor shifted again, becoming gentle yet firm.“Your Master has taken clear steps to correct your lapse. I should like to see the results.” Her voice was kind, but it held an edge of undeniable authority. “Turn around, Padawan.Let me see.”
Charlie’s heart stuttered. He looked at Shaak Ti.His Master gave him a single, slow, deliberate nod. It was not cruel, but it was unyielding.It said, You brought this on yourself.See it through.
Swallowing hard, his cheeks burning hotter than his backside, Charlie turned his back to the Senator and the amused Aayla, and the entire flowing traffic of the Senate hall. He closed his eyes, standing there, the coarse fabric of his trousers stretched taut over the unmistakable, ridiculous outline of the wedgie his Master had given him, waiting for the Senator’s inspection.
The silence behind him was absolute, and somehow louder than the hall's murmur. He could feel the Senator’s gaze on him, a precise, evaluating pressure centered on the strained seat of his pants. A few diplomats walked past; he heard their steps hesitate, then quickly move on.
“A thorough correction, Master Ti,” Mon Mothma said finally, her voice carefully neutral. “I trust the lesson resonates.”
“It does, Senator,” Shaak Ti replied. There was no smirk in her tone, only simple fact.
“You may turn around, Padawan.”
Charlie did, his movements stiff. He kept his eyes on the polished floor, on the reflected blur of green robes and blue skin.
“Look at me, Charlie.”
He forced his gaze up. Mon Mothma’s expression was kind, but there was a firmness there that brooked no argument. “The galaxy is not a game. Our work here is the difference between relief shipments reaching starving planets or being diverted into a warlord’s arsenal. Your Master’s… methods may seem unconventional, but their purpose is to focus a distractible mind. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Senator,” he muttered, the humiliation curdling into a sharp, sour lump in his throat.
“Good.”
A new voice, bright and laced with gleeful recognition, sliced through the moment. “Well, well. Lost a fight with a laundry droid, Charlie?”
Ahsoka Tano stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, a wide grin splitting her blue-white markings. She’d seen everything. Of course she had.
The heat in Charlie’s face ignited into a full-blown inferno. “Back off, Ahsoka.”
“Oh, I don’t think I will.” She circled him, her lekku swaying. “That’s some strategic bunching. New defensive posture? Gotta say, it clashes with the robe.”
“Padawan Tano,” Aayla Secura said, her dry tone a gentle leash. “Perhaps now is not the time.”
“It’s the perfect time,” Ahsoka said, stopping in front of him. Her grin softened, just a fraction. It wasn’t entirely mean-spirited; it was their language. “You tried to sweet-talk Senator Mothma, didn’t you?”
“He did,” Mon Mothma confirmed, a hint of her earlier amusement returning. “And he has been apprised of its inappropriateness.”
“Wow. Bold.” Ahsoka shook her head, but she was looking at Shaak Ti now, a flicker of respect in her eyes. She knew discipline, but this was… creative. “So, what’s the verdict? Is he grounded? On latrine duty for a decade?”
Before anyone could answer, a jagged, static-scarred hologram burst to life above the wrist comm of a harried-looking senatorial aide who had just sprinted up. The image resolved into the panicked face of a dockmaster, the angular lines of a Coruscant freight terminal visible behind him.
“—repeat, Code Seven-Seven in Sector Gamma-Halo! The Cynosure, a bulk freighter carrying decommissioned battle droid processors, has been seized by unknown hostiles during its retrofit! They’ve overridden the dock’s safeties and are priming the engines! Security forces are contained—we have—kriff!”
The image dissolved into a shower of sparks and the sound of blaster fire. The aide swallowed. “The transmission cuts there, sirs. The Cynosure is rated for atmo. If they get it airborne…”
The atmosphere in the alcove crystallized. All personal embarrassment vaporized under the stark, screaming urgency of the now.
Shaak Ti was already moving. “Aayla, with me. We need to contain that ship before it becomes a projectile.” Her golden eyes snapped to Charlie and Ahsoka. “You two. Perimeter sweep of the docking bay’s lower support pillars. Hostiles may have planted secondary charges or left rear-guard sentries. Report everything. Do not, under any circumstances, engage the main boarding party. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Master!” Ahsoka said, her posture snapping into focused readiness.
Charlie stood straighter, the throbbing in his backside a distant echo. “Clear.”
Shaak Ti held his gaze for a second longer. “The discipline of the mind must supersede all else, Padawan. Even discomfort. Prove you understand.”
Then she was gone, her robes whispering against the floor as she and Aayla broke into a swift, distance-eating stride toward a transit corridor, a wave of calm purpose amid the gathering panic.
Ahsoka elbowed him. “Come on, laundry-butt. You heard her. Lower pillars.” She took off.
Charlie followed, the awkward, bunched fabric chafing with every stride. The physical reminder was a constant, grating anchor. But as they weaved through the now-anxious crowds, heading for a service turbolift that would take them down to the bay’s underbelly, a different fire started to burn through the shame.
This was real. This was a crisis. And his Master, after everything, had just given him a job to do.
He adjusted his belt, ignoring the pinch.
“You’re slowing us down,” Ahsoka called over her shoulder, already at the lift controls.
“Just enjoying the view,” he shot back, the old smirk forcing its way onto his face. It felt different this time. Sharper. He hit the lift controls beside her. “Bet I spot more sentries than you.”
“You’re on. Loser has to explain their next wedgie to Master Yoda.”
The turbolift doors closed, plunging them into a dim, descending silence, the only sound the hum of repulsors and the quiet, determined rhythm of their breathing. The game was on, but the stakes had finally become something that mattered.