Chapter 13: The Senate Dinner Disruption
The golden light of the Echo Chamber felt galaxies away from the cold, glittering opulence of the Senate Building’s Grand Banquet Hall. Charlie shifted uncomfortably on his feet, the memory of his master’s firm hand on the speeder bike seat still a warm, lingering reminder beneath his formal Padawan robes. The fabric itched.
“Stop fidgeting,” Shaak Ti murmured, not looking at him. Her montrals swept elegantly above the crowd, her expression one of serene diplomacy. Only the slight twitch of her lips betrayed her. “The Senator of Ryloth is discussing tariff reforms. Try to look interested, or I’ll have you reciting the treaties from memory while standing on one leg.”
“I’d rather have another spanking,” Charlie muttered under his breath, earning a sharp, invisible pinch to his backside through the Force that made him jump. He shot his master a look. She sipped her drink, smiling at a passing Ithorian.
He was bored. Profoundly, soul-crushingly bored. The hall was a sea of murmuring voices, clinking glasses, and the rustle of expensive fabrics. The air smelled of perfume, roasted dactyl, and political ambition. He scanned the room, looking for anything of interest.
His gaze landed on the bar, and his boredom evaporated.
Senator Padmé Amidala stood alone, her back to the room as she awaited a drink. Her gown was a masterpiece of Naboo craftsmanship: deep sapphire silk that plunged in a dramatic backless sweep, hugging the curve of her spine before flaring at her hips. It was an invitation, a challenge. The warm light gleamed on her bare shoulders.
The impulse was electric and immediate. The tingling in his own rear transformed from a reminder of punishment into a spark of mischief. He glanced at Shaak Ti—she was now deep in conversation with Chancellor Palpatine. He slid away from her side, vanishing into the crowd with the ease of an 18-year-old used to slipping out of tutorials.
He moved quickly, his heart beating a playful rhythm against his ribs. He approached Padmé from behind, the noise of the party covering his steps. He didn’t think. He just acted.
His hand came down in a sharp, crisp slap on the rounded silk covering her backside.
The sound was perfect—a definitive, almost musical smack that cut through the ambient chatter. Padmé jolted, a tiny gasp escaping her. She spun, her dark eyes wide with shock, her hand flying to the offended spot. Her drink sloshed.
He saw the shock morph into recognition, then into a blazing, furious embarrassment. And underneath it, something else—a flicker in her eyes that made his stomach do a funny flip.
“You!” she breathed.
Charlie gave her his most charming, lopsided grin, the one he knew made the temple’s kitchen staff sneak him extra desserts. “Sorry, Senator. It was just… there. Looking very slap-able.” He winked and turned to flee, the adrenaline making him giddy.
He took exactly two steps before he walked directly into a wall of elegant, white-and-gold brocade.
He looked up. Senator Mon Mothma gazed down at him, her expression one of polite, auntly curiosity. She hadn’t seemed to be there a second ago.
“Running somewhere, young man?” she asked, her voice calm as a frozen lake.
“Ah. Senator Mothma. I was just… getting air.”
“With such haste? One might think you’d done something… indelicate.” Her eyes drifted past him to Padmé, who was now striding toward them, a storm of regal indignation on her beautiful face.
Mon Mothma’s hand came up with deceptive speed. Her fingers, cool and firm, closed around the curve of his ear. It wasn’t a brutal grip, but it was unshakable, imbued with the absolute authority of a woman who managed star systems.
“Ow! Hey, wait—”
“I think an apology is in order,” Mon Mothma said.
She steered him, ear-first, not toward Padmé, but to the nearby refreshment table laden with crystal glasses and shimmering canapés. “A moment of correction first, I think,” she said, her voice still a model of political courtesy. Her other hand drifted down, fingers slipping neatly beneath the back of his formal belt and into the waistband of his trousers.
With a brisk, practiced yank, she gave the fabric a sharp, upward pull.
The wedgie was instantaneous and profound. The soft material of his underwear sliced deep, jerking him upward onto the very tips of his polished shoes. A strangled yelp caught in his throat. Mon Mothma maintained eye contact with a passing Duros senator, offering a polite nod and a serene smile as Charlie wobbled precariously beside her, his face flushing a deep, mortified crimson.
“There now,” she whispered to him, her smile never fading. “Posture.” Still gripping his ear, she smoothly redirected their course, marching the tiptoeing Padawan away from the main hall and into a dim, marble-lined side corridor used by service droids. The grand music muffled to a dull throb.
The moment the door swished shut, her auntly demeanor shifted. The serene smile remained, but her eyes gained a glint of pure mischief. “You have the hands of a pickpocket and the manners of a Gran smugglers happened to wonder then,” she stated, pulling him toward a repulsorbench. She sat, arranging her gown with one hand while tugging him effortlessly across her knees with the other. His front was pressed against the cool marble of the bench’s seat.
“This is a diplomatic incident!” Charlie managed to squawk, his voice muffled.
“A local disciplinary matter,” Mon corrected. Her hand came down on the seat of his trousers with a solid, echoing crack. She spanked him with methodical, relentless precision, each smack landing lower than the last, igniting the already tender skin beneath. The formal fabric did little to dampen the sting. He kicked, but she simply tightened her arm around his waist.
After a dozen sharp reports that left him breathless, she paused. Her fingers hooked into his waistband again. “For completeness,” she said, and tugged both trousers and underwear down to his knees in one swift motion. The cool corridor air hit his heated skin. Before he could react, she wedgied him again, the elastic now biting directly into bare flesh, hoisting his vulnerable backside higher into the air.
She delivered five more searing spanks to his completely exposed skin, the sounds sharper, more intimate. “Enough,” she declared, letting the fabric snap back with a final, punitive sting. She stood him up, keeping a firm grip on his ear. “Now, you will apologize. Properly.”
Charlie fumbled, pulling his clothes back into a semblance of order, though the brutal wedgie kept the white fabric of his underwear bundled high and obvious above his belt line. Mon Mothma guided him, once more by the ear, back into the dazzling light and noise of the banquet.
Padmé was waiting exactly where they’d left her, sipping her drink with an expression of composed expectancy. Her eyes traveled down to the obvious, humiliating bunching at the back of Charlie’s trousers, and a bright, unbidden giggle escaped her before she could school her features into sternness.
“Well?” Mon prompted, giving his ear a tiny shake.
Charlie stared at the floor, his neck burning. “Senator Amidala… I apologize for… for slapping your… royal buttocks.”
Padmé placed a hand over her heart, her eyes widening with theatrical affront. “My royal buttocks? Young man, the indecency. The absolute gall. To lay hands on a sovereign posterior of Naboo?” She swirled her drink, her tone shifting to a mock-maternal firmness. “I must inspect the damage. Turn around, please. Present the instrument of the crime for evaluation.”
Charlie shot a desperate look at Mon Mothma, who gave a single, smug nod of approval. With a sigh of utter defeat, he turned, presenting his back to the crowded hall. A few nearby senators and aides had stopped to watch, grins spreading.
Padmé set her glass down and approached with an air of scientific curiosity. Her fingers, cool and deliberate, poked at the reddened skin visible above his waistband. “Such impertinence,” she mused, loudly enough for the growing audience to hear. She gave one cheek a soft, evaluating grope, making him jump. “To think, these very hands dared strike a dynastic derrière! The scandal!”
The crowd chuckled. Someone whistled. Charlie closed his eyes, wishing the marble floor would swallow him whole.
“I believe the sentence demands further enforcement, don’t you, Senator Mothma?” Padmé said, stepping back and wiping her fingers delicately on a napkin as if touching something distasteful. “The crime was against the Crown. The Crown should see justice done.”
“An excellent point,” Mon agreed, her eyes sparkling. “Would you care to do the honors?”
“Hey, no, wait, you already—” Charlie’s protest was cut off as Mon Mothma guided him smoothly toward an empty, high-legged cocktail table.
“Bend over it,” Padmé instructed, her feminist outrage now entirely diverted into gleeful authority. “And everyone, pay attention! Let this be a lesson on the perils of touching what you shouldn’t.”
Helpless, Charlie bent, gripping the far edge of the table. His posture pulled his trousers tight, clearly outlining the bright red state of his backside. Padmé accepted a small padd from a protocol droid, pretending to consult it. “For the crime of lese-majesty against the royal posterior… ten strokes. But we must ensure the lesson… sticks.”
She looked out at the ring of amused female senators and dignitaries who had gathered. “Ladies, if you would be so kind? A splash of your drinks, right here, before each stroke. To symbolize the… stain on diplomatic decorum.”
A delighted murmur rippled through them. The first, a Twi’lek in silvery robes, stepped forward with a grin and flicked the contents of her fizzy blue cocktail onto Charlie’s upturned rear. The liquid was cold, shocking, and dripped down his thighs.
SMACK! Padmé’s hand followed immediately, the wet impact startlingly loud and painful.
Another woman, a human with iron-gray hair, stepped up and tossed her red wine. It splashed across the other cheek like a paintball. SMACK!
Each cold, sticky, or fizzy splash was followed by the sharp, burning crack of Padmé’s palm. Taunts and laughter from the crowd mixed with the sounds of his humiliation. By the seventh stroke, his backside was a mess of dripping, multicolored liquids and stinging, hot pain. He buried his face in his arms, his whole body trembling with a mix of agony and unbearable exposure.
The final stroke landed, a resounding slap that echoed off the high ceiling. A ragged cheer went up. Padmé leaned down, her lips close to his ear, her voice a private whisper amid the public spectacle. “Next time,” she breathed, the heat of her words contradicting the feminist lecture, “ask first.” She straightened, addressing the crowd. “Justice is served!”
Mon Mothma helped him stand. His trousers were soaked, plastered to his throbbing skin, the garish evidence of his punishment on full display. He didn’t dare look at anyone. As he was led away, walking stiffly, he caught a glimpse of Shaak Ti across the room. His master raised her glass to him in a slow, silent toast, her knowing smile the widest of all.
Shaak Ti’s silent toast felt like a verdict. Charlie stood there, dripping, the multicolored stains cooling on his trousers as the crowd’s laughter dissolved back into polite chatter. The spectacle was over, but the exposure lingered, a raw, buzzing energy on his skin.
Mon Mothma’s hand, now gentle, rested on his damp shoulder. “Come along, dear,” she said, her voice a low murmur meant only for him and Padmé. “I think this disciplinary matter requires a more… nuanced discussion. Somewhere less crowded.”
Padmé nodded, her regal composure fully restored, though her eyes still danced. “A private debriefing is standard protocol for assaults on diplomatic personnel.” She leaned in, her whisper carrying the scent of wine. “You’re not getting off that easy, you little pest.”
They flanked him, a wall of elegant, implacable femininity, and steered him away from the main hall. Every step was a fresh agony of awareness. The wet fabric clung and chafed. Senators and aides they passed offered knowing smiles or politely averted their eyes, which was worse. He felt like a misbehaving puppy being led away by two displeased owners.
“The anteroom just off the western veranda should be vacant,” Mon suggested, her tone conversational, as if discussing canapé selections. “It has a locking door and, I believe, a rather comfortable divan.”
“For him to lie over?” Padmé asked, innocent.
“For us to sit while we decide his fate,” Mon corrected, though her smile suggested the distinction was minor.
They turned down a narrower corridor, the sounds of the banquet fading into a muffled hum. The air grew cooler. Mon Mothma produced a keycard from a hidden fold in her gown and swiped it against a polished durasteel door. It hissed open, revealing a small, sumptuously appointed chamber with a low table, a few plush chairs, and the mentioned divan.
Padmé entered first, surveying the room like a general assessing a battlefield. Mon guided Charlie inside and the door sealed shut, muting the outside world completely. The sudden quiet was profound, broken only by the soft rustle of silk and his own shallow breathing.
“Now then,” Mon began, turning to face him. She crossed her arms, the picture of austere authority, but a playful glint undermined the severity. “What are we to do with you? Public spanking is one thing, but the crime requires a lasting impression.”
Padmé walked a slow circle around him, her heels clicking on the marble. “He clearly has no respect for authority. Or for personal boundaries.” She stopped in front of him, her gaze dropping meaningfully. “His own attire is a mess. It’s disrespectful to the Temple, appearing like this.”
“A valid point,” Mon agreed. She tapped a finger to her lips. “We can’t send him back to Master Ti in soiled trousers. It would reflect poorly on her teaching.”
Charlie’s heart, which had begun to slow, started hammering again. “I can clean up in the ‘fresher,” he offered, his voice sounding too high.
“Oh, we’ll clean you up,” Padmé said. Her fingers went to the clasp of his formal belt. He flinched. “Stand still. This is part of your re-education.”
With efficient, unhurried movements, the two women undressed him. Mon worked on his boots while Padmé unfastened his tunic. There was no violence in it, only a calm, deliberate dismantling of his dignity. His wet trousers and underwear were peeled down his legs and discarded in a sodden heap. Soon he stood shivering in the center of the room, utterly bare, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin.
Mon gathered the soiled garments. “I’ll have these sent for cleaning. You won’t be needing them just yet.”
Padmé guided him toward the divan, not with force, but with an unspoken expectation of compliance he couldn’t defy. “On your knees, facing us,” she instructed, settling herself gracefully into one of the plush chairs. Mon took the seat beside her, folding her hands in her lap.
He knelt on the ornate rug, the pile rough against his knees. The two women looked down at him, a tribunal of devastating beauty and absolute power. His own state of undress made the power dynamic viscerally, painfully clear.
“The core issue is impulse control,” Mon began, her tone pedagogical. “You see something you want, and you act, without thought for consequence or protocol.”
“Or the dignity of a planetary sovereign,” Padmé added, arching an eyebrow.
“Precisely. Therefore, the punishment must target that impulse. It must introduce a… pause. A moment of forced consideration between thought and action.” Mon’s eyes drifted to a decorative box on a side table. She reached over and opened it, withdrawing a long, slender feather of iridescent blue from some exotic bird. “Physical sensation is a powerful teacher.”
Padmé accepted the feather, running her thumb along its spine. “But pain alone is crude. It merely punishes the body. We need to educate the mind as well.” She looked at Charlie, a slow smile spreading. “You will not be allowed to move. You will not be allowed to… react. You will simply feel, and think about what you’ve done.”
Mon nodded, pleased. “A brilliant formulation. Any reaction—any twitch, any sound, any physical response—will result in an escalation. Do you understand the rules, Padawan?”
He understood. The humiliation of the banquet was a roaring fire; this was the slow, smoldering coal. He gave a tight, miserable nod.
“Use your words,” Padmé chided softly.
“I understand,” he whispered.
“Good.” Padmé leaned forward. With the very tip of the feather, she began to trace impossibly light patterns on his chest. It was a teasing, maddening touch. She swirled it around a nipple, then dragged it down the center of his abdomen. He shuddered, his breath catching.
“Ah-ah,” Mon tutted. “Steady.”
The feather continued its torturous journey, dancing along his hip bones, skirting the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Every nerve ending screamed for more pressure, for a firmer touch, for anything to break the unbearable lightness. He clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw aching from the strain of holding still.
Padmé’s eyes never left his face, watching for the slightest crack in his composure. She switched tactics, using the soft, vaned side of the feather to flutter against him. The sensation was utterly disarming, a whisper against his skin that bypassed thought and went straight to his nervous system.
He felt his body betraying him, responding to the stimulation despite the context, despite his mortification. A low, helpless sound vibrated in his throat.
“A sound,” Mon noted, her voice clinical. “That’s an infraction, I’m afraid. Padmé?”
Without breaking her rhythm with the feather, Padmé’s free hand snaked out and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to his upper thigh. The contrast was electric—the soft, teasing torment followed by a bolt of clean, bright pain.
The slap snapped his head back, a gasp tearing from his lips. The sharp pain was a bright counterpoint to the feather’s maddening whisper. He forced his body still, muscles trembling with the effort.
“Better,” Padmé murmured, resuming the feather’s trail. It drifted lower, a ghost of a touch that made his stomach clench. He held his breath, every atom of his being focused on absolute stillness. The feather traced a slow, deliberate circle.
Mon watched, her head tilted. “The body learns through association. Discomfort follows transgression. Pleasure follows restraint.” Her voice was a calm lecture. “We are rewiring a faulty connection.”
The concept was drowned out by sensation. The feather became everything—a tickle along his ribs, a flutter against his throat, a torturous sweep behind his knee. He was a map of exposed nerves, and they were charting every inch. Time lost meaning. The only realities were the feather’s path and the threat of the slap.
Padmé finally withdrew the feather, setting it aside with a soft sigh. “I think he’s beginning to understand pause.” She looked at Mon. “But he’s still a mess.”
“A state we should rectify,” Mon agreed. She stood and glided to a discreet refresher door Charlie hadn’t noticed. She returned with a soft, damp cloth and a fluffy towel. “Come here.”
Still on his knees, he shuffled forward. Mon cupped his chin, her grip firm but not unkind. With the damp cloth, she began wiping the dried, sticky cocktail splashes from his face and neck. The water was cool. Her movements were methodical, maternal, and utterly demeaning. He was a child being cleaned up after making a mess.
Padmé took the cloth and knelt before him. She cleaned his chest and arms with the same efficient care, her expression one of focused housekeeping. “Such a nuisance,” she muttered, but her fingers lingered for a half-second on his collarbone. When they moved lower, the cloth passing over his stomach, he couldn’t suppress a shiver.
“Almost done,” she said, her voice low. She made a final pass with the towel, drying him off. The rough fabric abraded his sensitized skin, leaving a fresh, pink warmth in its wake. He was clean, but felt more exposed than ever.
Mon surveyed their work. “Presentable. But not dressed.” She gathered his cleaned and dried clothing from a service droid that had silently entered and departed. “You will put these on. Slowly. And with precision.”
Dressing under their dual gaze was a new kind of ordeal. Every fumble with a clasp, every hitch of fabric felt like a failure. He pulled on his underwear and trousers, the material harsh against his punished skin. He fastened his tunic with clumsy fingers. Finally, he stood before them, clothed, his hair damp at the temples, looking for all the world like a scolded boy sent to the principal’s office.
“There,” Padmé said, brushing a piece of lint from his shoulder. “A proper young Jedi again. On the outside.”
Mon took his arm. “Now, let’s return you to your master. I believe she’ll want a full report.”
They escorted him back through the corridors, a silent, shameful procession. The banquet was winding down, the crowd thinner. They found Shaak Ti near the entrance, speaking with a group of Rodian dignitaries. She excused herself with a graceful nod as they approached.
Her eyes, a luminous black, took in the scene: Charlie’s flushed face, the two senators flanking him, the air of solemn ceremony. “Senators,” she said, her voice a warm melody. “I see you’ve located my wayward Padawan.”
“We took the liberty of administering some corrective diplomacy,” Mon Mothma said, her tone light. “He made an… unsolicited advance on Senator Amidala’s person.”
“A grave breach of protocol,” Padmé added, though her lips quirked.
Shaak Ti’s gaze settled on Charlie. He saw no anger there, only a deep, knowing amusement. “Did he now? And was the corrective diplomacy… effective?”
“We believe so,” Mon said. “We’ve cleaned him up and returned him to your custody. Though the lesson may require… reinforcement.”
Shaak Ti stepped forward, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. Her touch was electric, promising everything and nothing. “Oh, I assure you, Senators, the lesson is just beginning.” She leaned close to Charlie, her voice dropping to a whisper that slithered into his ear. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, dragging these esteemed women into your mess.”
She straightened, addressing the senators with a formal bow. “My thanks for your… thorough intervention. I will see to it his education continues.”
As Mon and Padmé melted back into the crowd with final, amused glances, Shaak Ti’s grip on Charlie’s shoulder tightened. She steered him firmly out of the hall and into the vast, echoing Senate plaza. The night air was cool.
A sleek speeder bike awaited them at a private landing pad. She pushed him toward it. “Get on. Front.”
He obeyed, settling into the forward seat. She slid on behind him, her body pressing close. One arm wrapped around his waist to grip the controls. The other hand slid down, fingers slipping effortlessly beneath his waistband once more.
“You have no idea the trouble you’ve caused,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear as the speeder lifted off. The city lights blurred into streaks below them. Her hand cupped him through his clothes, a possessive, intimate claim. “All that public spectacle. It demands a private answer.”
Her fingers pinched, not hard, but with a promise of what was to come. He shuddered against her.
“When we get home,” she continued, her voice a low purr in the wind, “you are getting the hardest, longest bare bottom spanking of your life. And then…” She squeezed, making him gasp. “you can expect a spanking while I jerk you off. But you can't cum unless I say so."
The speeder shot forward into the neon night, her laugh a vibration against his back.