Chapter 15: Queen's Judgment
The walk to Padmé’s private suite felt longer than the march to the meditation chamber. Coruscant’s lower-level smog had given way to the clear, sanitized air of the Senatorial Residences, each corridor wider and quieter than the last. Charlie’s steps echoed. The deep, satisfied ache from Shaak Ti’s ministrations had settled into a background hum, a constant reminder that softened the sharper edges of his nervousness. He’d changed into fresh, simple robes—no tunic, just the trousers and a loose overshirt. A small act of pragmatism. Or surrender.
He paused before the ornate doors, took a breath that did nothing to steady him, and chimed the entry request.
The door slid open almost instantly, revealing not a handmaiden, but Padmé herself.
She was a vision of curated leisure. Gone was the stiff, elaborate gown from the banquet. She wore a robe of deep crimson Shimmer silk, the fabric clinging and flowing in turns as she moved. It was belted loosely, the V of the neckline hinting at the delicate sleepwear beneath. Her hair, usually in an intricate political statement, fell in a soft, auburn cascade over one shoulder. She held a datapad in one hand, but her eyes were already on him, bright and knowing.
“Padawan,” she said, her voice cool, a monarch acknowledging a subject. “You’re precisely on time. Come in.”
The suite was a masterpiece of Naboo design—warm, organic curves against Coruscant’s inherent sterility. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine from a living wall of vines. A low table held the remnants of tea for one. She had been waiting alone.
“Senator Amidala,” he began, adopting the most formal bow he could muster. “I’ve come to offer my sincere apologies for my… conduct at the banquet. My actions were disrespectful and unbecoming of a Jedi.”
She watched him straighten, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. She placed the datapad on the table. “Sincere apologies are often rehearsed. They rarely involve the body that committed the offense.” She walked past him, the silk whispering, and gestured to a plush, high-backed chair near the panoramic window. “Sit.”
He sat. The chair was deep, enveloping. She did not sit opposite him. Instead, she leaned against the edge of her broad desk, crossing her ankles. The robe parted slightly, revealing a sliver of bare thigh. It felt less like an accident and more like a punctuation mark.
“The orphanage fund received a record donation,” she said conversationally. “Mon Mothma is thrilled. She’s already drafting a proposal for a permanent ‘Jeronthian Charity Auction.’ Your backside may have started a philanthropic tradition.”
Charlie felt a flush creep up his neck. “I’m glad some good came of it.”
“Oh, immense good. But that was the public good. The collective good.” She uncrossed her ankles, then recrossed them the other way. “My personal sense of violation, however, remains unaddressed. You assaulted a head of state, Charlie. In front of the Galactic Senate.”
“It was a slap on the—” He caught himself.
“On the what?” Her eyebrow arched. “Go on. Minimize it. Please. It makes what comes next so much more satisfying.”
He fell silent. She pushed off the desk and moved to a side cabinet, opening it. When she turned, she held an object that made his stomach do a slow, familiar flip. It was a paddle, about the length of her forearm, carved from a rich, dark Naboo heartwood. The face was polished to a mirror sheen, and inlaid upon it in silver was the unmistakable crest of the Royal House of Naboo.
“A gift from the Security Council after my first term,” she said, running her fingers over the crest. “Symbolic. Meant to hang on a wall.” She tested its weight in her hand with a practiced little swing. The whuff of it cutting the air was terribly distinct. “I find it has more practical applications.”
She walked toward him, stopping just out of reach. “Master Unduli provided a charitable correction. Master Ti, I assume, provided… aftercare.” Her gaze was too perceptive. “But this? This is between you and me. A diplomatic settlement.”
“What are the terms?” His voice was dry.
“Transparency,” she said simply. “You will remove your clothes. You will bend over the arm of that couch.” She pointed with the paddle to a low, elegant sofa upholstered in cream velvet. “And you will spank yourself. With this. Ten times. While I ask you questions.”
He stared. “You want me to…?”
“Self-discipline is the mark of a true diplomat. And a true Jedi, is it not? I wish to witness your commitment to your own reformation.” Her smile was serene, utterly in control. “Think of it as a statement of contrition. A performance, just for me.”
The absurdity of it was dazzling. The intimacy of it, far more intense than being bent over a ceremonial table. This was quiet, private, and entirely hers to orchestrate.
He stood, his movements slightly stiff. He kept his eyes on hers as he unfastened his overshirt, let it drop. Then his boots, his socks. His fingers went to the closure of his trousers. Her expression didn’t change, but he saw her eyes darken, her focus absolute. He pushed the trousers down, stepped out. He stood before her in just his briefs, the air of the suite cool on his skin.
“All of it,” she whispered.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and slid them down, adding them to the small pile at his feet. He was completely exposed, the evidence of his earlier punishments still visible in the faint, rose-colored hue that painted his skin.
“Good.” She held the paddle out, handle first. “Now assume the position. And remember, I’ll be judging the quality of each stroke. Insufficient effort will require a repeat.”
He took the paddle. The wood was smooth, heavier than it looked. He walked to the couch, the plush carpet under his feet. Bending over the rounded arm pressed his sore muscles into the firm velvet. The position was acutely vulnerable, his body on full display for her viewing pleasure.
He heard the gentle rustle of her silk robe as she moved. She came to stand beside and slightly behind him, a spectator in her own court. He felt the weight of her gaze on his exposed skin.
“Begin,” she said, her voice soft.
He drew the paddle back and brought it down on his own backside.
The crack was loud in the quiet room. The pain was immediate, a sharp, broad sting that spread across the crest of his right cheek. He hissed.
“One,” Padmé counted. Her voice was calm, analytical. “Question one: Do you understand that a sovereign’s person is inviolable?”
“Yes,” he gritted out.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He swallowed. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He spanked himself again, aiming for the matching spot on the left. The impact jolted through him.
“Two. Do you admit that your action, regardless of intent, was a breach of interstellar protocol?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The third stroke landed lower, making his legs tense. The paddle was brutally efficient.
“Three. Will you consider the political ramifications of your ‘pranks’ in the future?”
“I will, Your Highness.” The title was becoming a mantra, a thread of submission woven into the pain.
He continued. Each stroke was an act of concentrated will, the pain bright and clean. The questions were a relentless, polite interrogation. By the sixth stroke, his arm was burning with effort, and his backside felt like a single, solid sheet of fire. His answers came through clenched teeth.
“Seven.” The paddle landed with a solid thwack. “Do you acknowledge that my authority, in this moment, is absolute?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” His voice was strained.
“Eight. Do you submit to it?”
A pause. He gripped the paddle handle tighter. “I submit to it, Your Highness.”
The ninth stroke was weaker, his arm failing. It landed with a duller sound.
“That was inadequate,” she stated, no reproach, just fact. “Again. Properly.”
He gathered the last of his strength, swung harder. The crack echoed. A small, pained sound escaped him.
“Nine,” she allowed. “Final question.” Her voice dropped, losing its formal edge, becoming something more personal. “Did a part of you do it because you knew I wouldn’t truly mind?”
The question hung in the jasmine-scented air. It was the real question, the one underneath all the protocol. He was panting, forehead damp against the velvet. Honesty was the only currency left.
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… Padmé.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Ten.”
The last stroke was almost a relief. It was done. The paddle slipped from his trembling fingers, thudding onto the carpet. He stayed bent, breathing heavily, the heat in his skin a roaring furnace. The silence was profound.
He heard her move. She knelt beside him on the carpet. Her scent, clean and floral, cut through the haze of his pain. Her fingers, cool and gentle, traced the edge of the royal crest now imprinted in a faint, silvery pink on his skin. The touch was so at odds with the violence of the wood that he shuddered.
“Look at that,” she murmured, almost to herself. “My mark is on you now. Officially.” Her fingers smoothed over the heated skin, a gentle, exploring caress that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “You did very well. A convincing performance.”
She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. Her voice was a warm, secretive whisper. “But we both know the truth, don’t we? You like my authority. I like wielding it. This…” Her hand cupped the scorched curve of his cheek, not to hurt, but to possess. “This is just our peculiar form of diplomacy.”
She stood then, leaving him trembling over the arm of the couch. He heard the soft clink of ceramic. When she returned, her hands were slick with the same cool, healing salve Shaak Ti had used. She began to apply it with the same meticulous care, her touch firm and soothing, working the balm into the deep, throbbing ache.
“This doesn’t mean I’m not still furious,” she said, but her tone was warm, amused. “A Queen must have the final word. And the final… impression.” Her hands were tender, almost loving, as they gentled the fire she had commanded him to light. “But it does mean we understand each other better.”
He relaxed into her touch, the dual sensation of soreness and soothing melting his bones. When she was done, she helped him up. His legs were unsteady. She guided him to sit gently on the very edge of the soft couch, a towel beneath him. She handed him a glass of water, which he drank greedily.
Padmé retrieved the paddle, wiping it clean with a cloth before setting it reverently on her desk, the crest facing the room. A trophy. Then she sat beside him, not touching, but close. The silence was comfortable now, charged but not tense.
“You should go,” she said after a moment, looking out at the endless city lights. “Before your Master sends a search party.” She turned her head, and her smile was genuine, a little wicked, and entirely Padmé. “But know this, Charlie. The next time you feel the urge to… test diplomatic boundaries with me?” She reached over and gave his bare thigh a sharp, stinging slap that made him jump. “I won’t be so generous. I’ll handle the proceedings myself. From start to finish.”
He stood, wincing as he pulled his clothes back on. The fabric felt abrasive over his sensitized skin. At the door, he turned. She was still on the couch, one leg tucked under her, the crimson robe pooling around her like blood. She looked regal, satisfied, and deeply alluring.
“Until next time, Your Highness,” he said, with a slight, genuine bow.
Her eyes glittered. “Until next time, Padawan.”
The door slid shut behind him. He walked back through the quiet halls, every step a fresh reminder. The soreness was a layered thing now: Luminara’s discipline, Shaak’s reclamation, and now, Padmé’s indelible seal. He touched the back of his trousers, feeling the radiant heat through the cloth.
In her suite, Padmé Amidala remained on the couch for a long while. Finally, she rose and picked up the wooden paddle from her desk. She ran her thumb over the silver crest, then, smiling, brought the smooth, unmarked back of it to her lips for a brief, secretive kiss, before placing it in the center of her desk, where she would see it every morning.
The kiss was still warm on the wood when the main door chimed. Padmé’s head snapped up, her serene expression sharpening into alert surprise. No appointments were scheduled. Her handmaidens would have announced themselves. She instinctively tightened the sash of her robe, the silk whispering a warning.
“Enter,” she called, her voice carefully level.
The door slid open. Charlie stood in the threshold, backlit by the corridor’s glow. He’d never left. His boots were still in his hand, his bare feet silent on the polished floor. His eyes, usually so full of practiced charm, were dark and direct, fixed on the paddle in her hand. The quiet between them thickened, charged with a new current.
“You forgot something,” he said. His voice was low, stripping away the formal titles.
“Did I?” She didn’t move, didn’t set the paddle down. His return was a breach of protocol, an unpardonable intrusion. A thrill, hot and immediate, shot down her spine.
He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. He dropped his boots with a soft thud. “The lesson. You said a Queen must have the final word.” He took a step closer. The scent of the healing salve, her salve, clung to him. “But you let me leave. That felt like your word wasn’t final at all. It felt like an invitation.”
She held her ground, the ruler dismissing a subject. “You’re misinterpreting grace for indecision. A dangerous mistake.”
“Am I?” Another step. He was within arm’s reach now. She could see the faint, perfect outline of her royal crest still blushing on his cheek, visible above the low waist of his trousers. Her mark. He looked at the paddle, then back at her face. “You kissed it.”
All pretense evaporated. The air left the room. Padmé felt a flush climb her neck, part fury, part naked exposure. He had seen her. He had watched her private moment. The power she’d wielded so perfectly now tilted, unbalanced.
“Get out,” she breathed, but the command lacked its former steel.
“No.”
He moved. It wasn’t an attack, but an assertion. His hand, quick and sure, shot out. He didn’t grab her wrist. He didn’t touch the paddle.
HE PULLS HER ROBE.
His fingers closed on the loose lapel of her crimson Shimmer silk robe, right over her breastbone. A sharp, decisive yank. The loosely tied belt offered no resistance. The robe flew open, then was tugged down over her shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides for one stunned, breathless second before pooling at her feet.
She stood frozen, clad only in a thin, pale blue chemise of gossamer Naboo linen. It left nothing to the imagination. The cool air of the suite whispered across her skin, raising goosebumps. The silence was absolute, a vacuum.
Charlie’s gaze was a physical touch, sweeping over her, taking in the sudden, vulnerable exposure. His own breath hitched. This wasn’t part of the script. This was real.
Padmé didn’t scream. She didn’t cover herself. A tremor ran through her, but she straightened her spine, lifting her chin. The Queen, even in disarray. “This is treason,” she whispered, the words husky.
“Probably,” he agreed, his eyes finally meeting hers. The bratty Padawan was gone. In his place was someone older, dangerously focused. “You wanted a final impression.” He let go of the silk, now a puddle of crimson on the floor. “Here it is. We’re even.”
He turned and walked to the door, leaving her standing there, exposed and trembling. He didn’t look back as he scooped up his boots. He didn’t hurry.
The door slid shut behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Padmé did not move. She stared at the closed door, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. The cool air on her skin was a shocking, exhilarating contrast to the heat flooding her cheeks and chest. She glanced down at herself, at the thin chemise, at the robe a proud banner at her feet.
A slow, uncontrollable smile began at the corners of her mouth. It spread, deepening, transforming her face. A low, breathless laugh escaped her, echoing in the silent, elegant room.
He’d pulled her robe. The absolute, brazen nerve of it.
She stepped out of the silk pool, leaving it on the floor. She walked, feeling the carpet under her bare feet, to the panoramic window. Coruscant’s infinite lights stretched before her, a sea of indifferent秩序. She placed her palms flat on the cool transparisteel.
“We are not even, Charlie,” she said to her reflection, her voice a promise etched in smoke. Her reflection smiled back, fierce and alive. The game had just become something else entirely.
The game had just become something else entirely.
She was still standing there, the cool transparisteel against her palms, when the door chimed again. The sound was soft, almost tentative. Padmé didn’t turn. “It’s open,” she called, her voice sounding strangely calm in the vast room.
The door slid back. Charlie stood there again, framed in the light. He’d put his boots back on. He held a small, folded piece of dark fabric in his hands—her robe. He must have grabbed it from the corridor floor outside. He didn’t speak immediately, his gaze taking in the scene: the Queen of Naboo in her translucent chemise, backlit by the galactic city, her discarded robe in his hands.
He stepped inside. The door closed.
“You left this,” he said, his voice quieter than before, stripped of its defiant edge. He held it out, not moving closer. It was an offering, a return to some semblance of protocol.
Padmé finally turned from the window. She didn’t rush to cover herself. She regarded him, the boy holding her sovereignty like a forgotten shawl. The fury was gone, replaced by a profound, buzzing curiosity. She walked toward him, each step measured on the soft carpet. She stopped just out of reach.
“You came back,” she stated.
“I never really left.”
She took the robe from his hands. The silk was cool. She didn’t put it on. She simply held it, a bundle of crimson between them. “Why?”
Charlie’s eyes, which had been fixed on hers, drifted down. It wasn’t a leer. It was slower, more appreciative. He swallowed, his earlier bravado melting into something more genuine, more vulnerable. “Because I realized I didn’t say what I should have,” he said, his words coming out in a soft rush. “When I pulled your robe open. All I saw was… how pretty you looked. How completely, breathtakingly pretty.” His gaze lifted back to hers, honest and hot. “And how sexy your underwear is. It’s driving me kind of crazy, actually.”
The admission hung between them, disarming in its simplicity. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a confession. It acknowledged her power, her allure, and his own helpless reaction to it.
A faint, genuine smile touched Padmé’s lips. She let the robe slip from her fingers, letting it fall to the floor once more. “It’s a chemise,” she corrected gently, her tone dropping into a confidential register. “Not underwear. There’s a difference.” She took the single step that closed the distance between them. “Pretty, you think?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes searching hers.
“And sexy?”
“Painfully.”
She reached up, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture was shockingly tender. “You have a talent for treason, Padawan. And for compliments.” Her hand trailed down, coming to rest lightly on the front of his trousers, over the distinct, firm evidence of his words. She felt him tense, then push almost imperceptibly into her touch. “This is a more convincing apology than the paddle.”
“That wasn’t an apology,” he whispered, his hands rising to hover at her hips, not daring to grip. “This is.”
“An apology shouldn’t feel so good for the person giving it,” she murmured, her thumb tracing a slow circle through the fabric. She could feel the heat of him, the shape of him. Her own breath was coming shorter. The cool, intellectual thrill of the punishment was gone, burned away by this immediate, physical truth.
“Then maybe it’s not an apology,” he said, his voice rough. His hands finally settled on her waist, his touch hesitant. “Maybe it’s just the truth.”
Padmé leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “The truth is dangerous. It topples governments.” She pulled back just enough to see his face. “Kiss me. And make it a convincingly sorry one.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. His mouth found hers, and it was nothing like their verbal sparring. It was deep, hungry, and shockingly soft all at once. It tasted of relief and stolen time. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. The thin linen of her chemise was no barrier at all; she could feel every line of his body against hers, the rough weave of his Jedi trousers against her bare thighs.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. Foreheads pressed together in the dim light.
“Your Highness,” he mumbled against her lips.
“Don’t,” she whispered back, nipping his lower lip. “Not right now. Right now, it’s just Padmé. And the brat who can’t keep his hands to himself.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “I’m trying.”
“Try less.” She took his hand and guided it from her waist, placing his palm flat against the small of her back, under the hem of the chemise. His skin was warm, slightly calloused. Her own skin jumped at the contact. “See? This is the part where the Queen gets her final word.”
She walked him backward, guiding him with the pressure of her body until his knees hit the edge of the wide, low couch. He sank down onto it, looking up at her, his eyes wide and dark. She followed him down, straddling his lap, the delicate fabric of her chemise riding up. The position left her towering over him, her bare thighs framing his hips. She could feel him, hard and insistent, beneath her.
“My final word,” she said, cradling his face in her hands, “is that you’re mine. For tonight. This isn’t a treaty. It’s a surrender.” She kissed him again, slowly, deeply, her hips making a small, deliberate roll against his that drew a ragged groan from his throat. “And I’m accepting yours.”