Chapter 14: The Handprint Auction
The silence in the wake of Luminara’s whispered promise was more terrifying than the crowd’s roar. The applause had died, replaced by the soft, shuffling sounds of the banquet resuming its course, the spectacle now absorbed into the evening’s gossip. Charlie’s backside throbbed in ten distinct, overlapping handprints beneath his trousers, a precise map of his auction.
Luminara’s grip on his arm was not cruel, but it was absolute. She guided him not toward the main exit, but through a discreet archway leading to the Senate’s private administrative halls. Her steps were measured, silent on the polished floor. His own feet stumbled slightly, his perception narrowed to the burning in his rear and the cool, green-skinned hand steering him.
“Master Unduli,” he began, his voice too loud in the sterile corridor.
“Quiet, Padawan.” She didn’t look at him.“Conservation of energy is a Jedi principle. Save your breath. You’ll need it.”
They reached a nondescript door bearing the glyphs of the Jedi Order.She keyed it open. The room beyond was a small, spare meditation chamber used by Jedi on Senate business: a simple mat on the floor, a low bench, a slender window looking out over the endless cityscape. It was a place of austerity, a stark contrast to the opulent chaos they’d just left.
The door hissed shut, sealing them in a pocket of profound quiet. The constant hum of Coruscant was reduced to a distant vibration through the transparisteel.Luminara finally released his arm. She walked to the center of the room and turned to face him. Her hands were clasped before her, her expression unreadable, the intricate tattoos on her face seeming to shift in the low light.“Remove your tunic,” she said. Her voice was calm, instructional.Charlie hesitated for only a second before obeying. The fabric, still slightly damp from Mon Mothma’s cleaning, whispered as he pulled it over his head. He folded it neatly, a habit drilled into him, and placed it on the bench. The cool air touched his skin, raising goosebumps.
“Your trousers as well.”
His fingers fumbled with the fastening. The memory of Padmé and Mon undressing him hours before flashed, a hot echo of shame.He pushed the trousers down, stepping out of them. He stood before her in just his briefs, the white fabric a stark contrast to the ten pink, perfectly-placed handprints radiating heat.Luminara observed him, her gaze analytical.“The public correction was for charity. A performance.It served its purpose. This,” she said, gesturing to the space between them, “is for education.You have a problem with impulse control. You act on whims, on mischievous desires, without forethought for the chain of consequences you set in motion.”
“I know,” he mumbled, looking at the floor.“Do you? Or do you merely enjoy the consequences?” She took a single step closer.“Master Ti indulges your… proclivities. She uses humiliation as a tool for bonding, for her own amusement as much as your discipline. It is a dynamic I do not share.My approach is simpler.”
She reached out, but not to touch him. With a subtle gesture, she used the Force. The waistband of his briefs tightened, then slid down his thighs of their own accord, puddling at his ankles. He was completely exposed.“On the mat.Knees. Then bend forward, until your forehead rests on the floor. Present yourself properly.”
The position was deeply submissive, vulnerable in a way that felt different from being bent over a table.He complied, the rough weave of the mat scratching his knees. He folded himself down, the stretch pulling at his sore muscles, his bare backside pointing toward the ceiling. From this vantage, he could only see the floor and her booted feet.
He heard the soft rustle of her robes as she moved.She circled him once, a slow, predatory orbit. “Your actions disrupted a diplomatic function, embarrassed a sovereign, and turned a Jedi Padawan into a piece of charity theater.You reduced discipline to a commodity. These are failures of judgment, of dignity.”
She stopped behind him.He held his breath.“You will count,” she said. “You will thank me for each stroke.You will articulate, clearly, what lesson you are learning. If you fail in any of these, we will start again from zero. Do you understand the terms?”
“Yes, Master Unduli.”
“Good.”
There was no warning. The first swat was not a slap, but a crisp, solid thwack of her open palm. It landed lower than the existing handprints, on the tender undercurve where buttock meets thigh. The pain was startlingly focused, a bright blossom of pure sensation.“One,” he gasped. “Thank you, Master Unduli. I… I am learning to think before I act.”
“Adequate.”
The second stroke landed beside the first, a matching star of pain.“Two. Thank you, Master Unduli.I am learning to respect diplomatic protocols.” His voice wavered slightly.She paused. “Your gratitude lacks sincerity.Your lesson is recited by rote. We will begin again.”
“What?No, I—”
The third stroke, harder, cut his protest short. It overlapped the first, deepening the ache.“That was zero,” she stated, her voice cool. “Begin.”
He swallowed, forcing his mind to focus through the sting.“One. Thank you, Master Unduli. I am learning that my actions embarrass my Master and my Order.” This time, he tried to mean it.“Better.”
She settled into a rhythm. Each swat was deliberate, spaced just far enough apart for the pain to peak and then settle into a deep, throbbing warmth before the next arrived. She covered the entire landscape of his backside, from the crests down to his upper thighs, avoiding the already-tender handprints from the auction. It was a methodical, comprehensive remapping.“Four.Thank you, Master Unduli. I am learning that my impulses have costs.”
“Seven.Thank you, Master Unduli. I am learning to consider the position of others.” His forehead was damp against the mat.“Nine. Thank you, Master Unduli.I am learning… control.” His voice was thick now, choked.
The tenth and final stroke was the hardest, a sharp, concluding crack that made his whole body jolt. A small, helpless sound escaped him.“Ten.Thank you, Master Unduli.” He drew a shuddering breath. “I am learning… humility.”
Silence filled the room, broken only by his ragged breathing. The heat radiating from his skin was immense, a solid, concentrated aura of punishment.
He heard her kneel behind him.Her presence was a cool contrast to the fire she’d cultivated. A single, slender finger traced the line of his spine, from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back.The touch was clinical, assessing.
“The lesson is administered,” she murmured, almost to herself.“But the reinforcement is crucial. The body must remember what the mind is taught.”
Her hand settled, not striking, but simply resting on the hottest, most tender part of his right cheek.The weight was exquisite, a pressure that simultaneously soothed and intensified the pain beneath. She began to move her palm in slow, firm circles, working the soreness deeper into the muscle.It was a continuation of the punishment, but in a different, more intimate language. A quiet, relentless claim of authority.He moaned, the sound torn from him involuntarily.
“You are a canvas of poor choices, Padawan,” she whispered, her other hand coming up to join the first, kneading his scorched flesh.“We must massage the foolishness out. Until it sinks in.” Her thumbs pressed hard into the sit-spots, the intense, almost unbearable ache forcing another choked gasp from his throat.
Just as the sensation was teetering on a strange, painful edge, the chamber door hissed open.
Charlie flinched, trying to curl away, but Luminara’s hands held him in place.
Shaak Ti stood in the doorway, her montrals nearly brushing the frame. She took in the scene: Charlie prone and bare, his skin flushed a deep, uniform pink, Luminara kneeling over him with her hands possessively on his rump. Shaak’s warm eyes flickered from Charlie’s face, pressed to the mat, to Luminara’s serene one.
“Luminara,” Shaak said, her tone light, conversational.“I heard you won the auction. I thought I’d come to collect my wayward investment.”
Luminara did not remove her hands. She continued the slow, firm massage.“He is in the middle of a lesson in consequence reinforcement, Shaak. It is not yet complete.”
“Oh, I can see that.” Shaak stepped fully into the room, the door sealing behind her. She walked around them, her own gaze now conducting a thorough inspection of Charlie’s condition.She let out a soft, appreciative whistle.“Thorough work. Very precise. No lasting damage, just a deep, memorable sting.”
“That is the intention.”
“Master,” Charlie croaked, the word muffled by the mat.
“Quiet, darling,” Shaak chided gently.She stopped beside Luminara. “You know, I was going to give him the hardest, longest bare-bottom spanking of his life tonight. For dragging the good name of our lineage through the Senate’s gossip mill.”
Luminara finally looked up, meeting Shaak’s gaze.A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “And?”
“And,” Shaak continued, crouching down to bring her face level with Charlie’s. She brushed a damp strand of hair from his temple.“I find myself pre-empted by a master of judicial discipline. It would be redundant.And possibly counterproductive.” Her eyes gleamed. “But a promise is a promise.”
Luminara’s circling hands stilled. “What are you proposing?”
Shaak Ti’s smile widened.“A joint custodial sentence. You’ve painted the lesson on his backside so beautifully.But the mind… his mind still wanders. I believe I can help anchor it.” She stood, her hand moving to the clasp of her own utility belt. “If you’ll allow me to… continue his education from here.”
Charlie’s heart, which had begun to slow, slammed against his ribs. He watched, unable to move, as Shaak Ti unfastened her belt and let it drop with a soft thud to the mat beside his head.Luminara studied her fellow Master for a long moment. Then, slowly, she gave a single, graceful nod. She removed her hands from Charlie’s flesh, the sudden absence of pressure feeling like a loss.She stood, smoothing her robes.
“His impulses are a river,” Luminara said, her voice once more the calm, didactic tone of a teacher. “You cannot punish a river into a new course.You can only channel it. Direct its energy.”
Shaak tilted her head.“I’ve never been one for dams, Luminara. I prefer to… swim in the current.” She placed a hand on Luminara’s shoulder, a gesture of thanks and camaraderie. “I’ll ensure the lesson holds.”
Luminara gave one last, appraising look at the prone Padawan. “See that you do.” Without another word, she turned and glided from the chamber, the door whispering shut behind her, leaving Charlie alone with his master.
The silence stretched, thicker now.Shaak knelt beside him again. Her fingers traced the same path Luminara’s had, down his spine, but her touch was different.Warmer. Possessive in a way that made his skin prickle with anticipation rather than dread.
“My clever, foolish boy,” she sighed, her breath warm against his ear. “Getting yourself spanked for charity by a Mirialan master. You really know how to make an event of your punishments, don’t you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Her hand descended, not in a slap, but in a firm, stinging rub over the entire sore expanse, re-igniting every nerve Luminara had carefully stoked.
“Now,” Shaak Ti whispered, her voice dropping to a husky, intimate register that promised everything and nothing. “Let’s see if we can make you forget all those handprints except mine.”
Her fingers curled into the waistband of the briefs still pooled around his ankles. The fabric, damp with nervous sweat, offered no resistance as she peeled it away. The cool chamber air washed over his freshly bared skin, a shocking contrast to the deep, throbbing heat Luminara had painted across his backside.
He shuddered.
“There,” she murmured, tossing the briefs aside to land on his discarded tunic. “Now we have a proper canvas.” Her palm returned, not striking, but resting flat against the crest of his right cheek. The contact was electric, her skin warmer than Luminara’s had been. “She was very thorough. I almost feel jealous.”
“You shouldn’t,” he managed, his voice strained from the position.
“Oh, I don’t mean the spanking, darling.” Her hand began to move again, a slow, proprietary glide over the punished curves. “I mean her focus. Her detachment. It’s so very… Mirialan.” Her touch drifted lower, fingertips tracing the vulnerable crease where thigh met buttock. He jerked. “My focus is entirely different.”
Her other hand joined, both now kneading the sore flesh with a relentless, practiced pressure. It wasn’t massage anymore. It was reclamation. Each circular motion stoked the fire, blurring the sharp edges of Luminara’s precise strikes into a single, aching tapestry of sensation that belonged solely to Shaak Ti.
“You slapped a Queen, Charlie.”
“I know.”
“You got auctioned off. For orphans.” She pressed a thumb deep into a particularly tender knot, and he gasped. “That’s almost noble, in a deeply stupid way.”
He could hear the smirk in her voice. “Mon Mothma set it up.”
“And you walked right into it. My brilliant Padawan.” Her hands stilled, then delivered a sudden, sharp series of pats—not hard, but startling—across the center of his warmth. “This, however? This is for making me watch another master discipline what’s mine. I had plans for this backside tonight. They involved my belt and that little bench in the corner.”
A fresh wave of heat, unrelated to the pain, flushed through him. The image was vividly, terrifyingly clear.
“Look at you,” she whispered, her tone shifting, becoming almost conversational. “All sorry and sore and laid out. But your body’s telling a different story, isn’t it?” One hand slid from his rear, around his hip, seeking and finding the proof of her words. He flinched, a helpless sound catching in his throat. “See? You never learn. You just… enjoy.”
Her grasp was firm, knowledgeable. It wasn’t a caress. It was an inspection. A confirmation of power. “Luminara saw a problem to be corrected. I see… potential.” She released him, but the ghost of her grip remained. “Up. On your knees. Facing me.”
The change was disorienting. He pushed himself up, the muscles in his thighs protesting, his body humming with conflicting signals—pain, shame, a desperate, unwanted arousal. He knelt before her, unable to meet her eyes, staring instead at the intricate leather of her belt still coiled on the mat.
Her fingers caught his chin, tilting his face up. Her expression was unreadable, a mixture of affectionate annoyance and simmering amusement. “That look. The ‘I’m in so much trouble’ look. It’s my favorite.”
Her thumb brushed his lower lip. “But tonight, I think we’re past lessons. Aren’t we?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Reaching into a pouch on her discarded belt, she produced a small, plain ceramic jar. The scent of aloe, bota, and something faintly spicy filled the space between them as she unscrewed the lid. “This is for sunburn on Shili. Also useful for other kinds of radiant heat.”
She dipped two fingers into the cool, translucent gel. He flinched as she touched the first stripe of fire Luminara had painted low on his thigh. The ointment was a shocking, wonderful relief, a balm that sank deep into the throbbing flesh. She worked it in with a slow, circular pressure that was both clinical and intensely intimate.
“You took that well,” she murmured, her focus on her task. “Luminara doesn’t believe in half-measures. I’d ask if you learned anything, but we both know the answer.”
“I learned my backside has a very high credit value,” he said, the sass returning now that the sharpest pain was being smothered.
She chuckled, a low, warm sound, and applied a fresh dollop higher up. “And that it can attract the attention of discerning masters. There.” Her hands, slick and cool, now glided over the entire landscape of his punishment, smoothing the gel into every inflamed inch. The initial shock melted into a penetrating warmth that soothed the damaged tissue. Her touch gradually shifted from application to something else—a firm, knowing massage that sought out the tight knots of trauma and unwound them.
He let his head fall forward, a sigh escaping him. The tension began to leach from his shoulders.
“See?” she whispered, her thumbs working deep into the curves of his sit-spots, not to hurt, but to release. “The fuss is over. The audience is gone. It’s just the heat, and the cool, and my hands.” One hand slid around his hip, tracing the line of his pelvis, while the other continued its diligent work on his buttock. Her fingers found him again, still firm, and she gave a slow, approving stroke. “And this. This stubborn, honest part of you that never lies to me.”
Her grip was languid now, a loose, rhythmic friction that matched the pace of her massaging palm on his sore muscles. It was impossible to separate the remedial from the erotic; the relief blooming in one area fed the sensitive fire in the other. He rocked slightly into her hand, a helpless, tiny motion.
“That’s it,” she encouraged, her breath against his ear. Her lips brushed his montral. “Let the soreness go. Let it turn into something else.” Her words were soft threads in the quiet room. “You were magnificent tonight, you know. A perfect, bratty spectacle. You gave that stuffy room a story they’ll whisper about for months.”
Her dual rhythms continued, one hand coaxing the ache from his punished flesh, the other drawing a tight, rising tension from his core. The world narrowed to the circle of her arms, the scent of ointment and her skin, the building pressure that made his breath catch. He was balanced on a knife’s edge between the lingering echo of the spanking and the gathering wave of pleasure.
“My brave, ridiculous boy,” she whispered, her voice husky with affection. Her stroking quickened, just a fraction. Her other hand pressed firmly into the small of his back, holding him steady. “Come on. Let it go. I’ve got you.”
The climax, when it broke over him, was a deep, shuddering release that seemed to pull the last vestiges of pain from his muscles and leave a boneless, tingling warmth in its place. He sagged forward, his forehead coming to rest against her collarbone. She held him through it, her hands softening to gentle passes, until the last tremor subsided.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then she shifted, lowering them both to lie on the soft mat. She pulled his head onto her shoulder, her fingers idly stroking his hair.
“You’re a mess,” she said quietly, her tone devoid of any real criticism.
“Your mess,” he mumbled into her robes.
She squeezed him. “Yes. Mine.” They lay there as the distant glow of Coruscant’s artificial night bled through the window. Eventually, she reached for the ointment jar again. “We’re not done. This needs to soak in.” Her touch was all comfort now, reapplying the balm with a tender, possessive slowness that left his skin glowing and numb in the best way. She whispered to him—nonsense about the Senate, about the pranks they’d pull tomorrow, about how impressive his auction price had been. Words of ownership and absurd encouragement that nonetheless settled something deep inside him.
The night deepened. The city’s perpetual hum became a lullaby. She never stopped touching him, her hand a constant, warm presence on his skin, whether massaging a final knot or simply resting in the dip of his waist. He drifted in a haze of exhaustion and deep contentment, every smarting reminder of the day gentled by her care.
The first sliver of true dawn, a pale grey light that was not neon or streetlamp, crept across the floor. It touched his closed eyelids. He stirred, blinking. The fiery pain was gone. In its place was a deep, muscle-sore satisfaction, like the aftermath of a rigorous workout. The skin of his backside felt cool, tight, and strangely new.
Shaak Ti was seated beside him, legs folded in meditation, watching the sunrise color the towers. She felt his wakefulness and glanced down, her smile quiet and knowing.
“Better?”
He stretched, testing. A mild ache, nothing more. “Yeah. Good as new.”
“Mm.” She ran a hand through his hair. “Up you get. We have a report to file about ‘charitable donations.’ And I believe someone owes Queen Amidala a very formal, very public apology.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’ll help you practice your bow.”