Chapter 2: Friendly Revenge
A soft, breathy chuckle escaped Shaak Ti’s lips. Her hand, almost absentmindedly, came to rest on the curve of her backside, pressing gently through the layers of fabric. “A commendable strike, Bultar. Truly. You found the opening in the chaos and exploited it without mercy. The mark of a good tactician.” Her red-orange skin crinkled around her eyes as she smiled, a real, proud smile that made Bultar’s chest swell with an absurd, victorious warmth.
Then the Master’s gaze shifted, her warm smile turning into something more knowing, more deliberate, as she looked at Rey and Barriss. “You two. Your contributions were essential, but… incomplete. You provided the opportunity, but you failed to secure the objective yourselves. In a real scenario, that gets your partner captured. Or worse.”
Rey swallowed, her earlier grin fading. Barriss simply stood straighter, her hands clasped behind her back, face a calm mask awaiting judgment.
“Therefore,” Shaak Ti continued, her voice smooth as river stone, “a lesson in consequence. One each. To remind you that your actions, even in support, carry their own weight.” She pointed a slender finger toward the center of the mats. “Rey. Here, please.”
Rey’s shoulders slumped a fraction, but she walked forward, her boots silent on the padding. The endless mirrors showed her approach from every angle, her expression a mix of resignation and stubborn pride. Shaak Ti didn’t move to meet her. She just waited.
“Bend over, child. Touch your toes.”
The command was simple, casual. It wasn’t shouted. That made it worse. Rey’s cheeks flushed the color of desert clay. She glanced at Bultar, who gave a tiny, helpless shrug, and at Barriss, whose face was now carefully neutral. With a slow exhalation, Rey bent forward, her fingers reaching for her boots. The position pulled her tunic tight across her back, and the posture was deeply, undignifiedly vulnerable.
Shaak Ti stepped closer. She didn’t draw it out. Her hand, clad in soft leather, came down once, twice, three times in quick succession. Smack. Smack. Smack. The sound was firm, crisp, and echoed sharply in the quiet room. It wasn’t a brutal assault; it was a measured correction, each pop landing with a stinging precision that made Rey jolt. She bit down on a yelp, turning it into a hissed intake of breath.
“Your distraction was ingenious,” Shaak Ti said calmly, as if lecturing. “But you left yourself exposed in the air for a full second after. Had I been a less charitable opponent, you would have been disarmed and subdued before you hit the ground.” Smack. A fourth, for emphasis. Rey’s knuckles whitened where she gripped her boots.
“Understood,” Rey gritted out, her voice tight.
“Good. Up you get.”
Rey straightened, her movements stiff. She didn’t rub the affected area, but the slight flush on her neck and the way she avoided immediate eye contact spoke volumes.
Shaak Ti’s attention turned like a planetary orbit. “Barriss.”
Barriss moved forward with her usual serene grace, but her green skin had already taken on a subtle, darker hue at the cheekbones. She stopped before her Master.
“Your use of the Force was precise and effective,” Shaak Ti said. “Lifting my robes was a masterstroke of misdirection.” She paused, letting the compliment hang. “However, you became a static target the moment you achieved your goal. You held the fabric, but you forgot to move your feet. In focusing on one victory, you made yourself vulnerable to the next attack.”
Barriss gave a single, short nod. “A tactical oversight. I acknowledge it.”
“Acknowledgement is the first step. Physical reinforcement is the second. Turn around, my dear.”
Barriss’s composure cracked for a microsecond—a slight widening of her dark eyes. She turned, presenting her back to Shaak Ti, and to the mirrors, which now reflected her waiting form, her slender frame held rigid.
Shaak Ti didn’t ask her to bend. Instead, she closed the distance. Her hand landed on the back of Barriss’s thigh, just above the knee—a light, almost clinical tap. Then, with a sudden, swift motion, she delivered a sharp, upward flick of her fingers right to the seat of Barriss’s shorts.
It wasn’t a spank. It was a wedgie. A brutal, efficient, and deeply intimate one, executed with the ruthless precision of a surgeon. The fabric, cotton and simple, was yanked deep into the cleft of Barriss’s rear with a sharp thwip.
Barriss jerked as if electrocuted. A shocked, undignified squeak burst from her lips. Her hands flew back instinctively, but Shaak Ti had already stepped away, leaving her standing there, flushed from the roots of her dark hair down her neck, awkwardly trying to discreetly alleviate the sudden, intense discomfort. The geometric tattoos on her face stood in stark contrast to the deep emerald blush of her humiliation.
“A reminder,” Shaak Ti said, her tone still that of a teacher, “that the most clever plan can unravel if you forget to protect your own foundations. You may adjust yourself.”
The permission was its own kind of torment. Barriss, with trembling fingers and burning cheeks, had to pick at the lodged fabric in full view of everyone. It took several agonizing seconds. Bultar looked at the floor, a strange mix of sympathy and second-hand embarrassment making her own face hot. Rey watched, wide-eyed, her own recent stinging forgotten in the face of Barriss’s utterly flustered state.
“Lesson concluded,” Shaak Ti announced, her voice returning to its normal, melodic warmth. “You are all dismissed. I expect to see cleaner form and sharper awareness tomorrow. Bultar, enjoy your month of clean refreshers.”
She gave them all a final, cryptic smile, then turned and glided from the training hall, her robes whispering across the mats. The grand door sighed shut behind her, leaving the three of them in the silent, mirror-filled room.
Bultar let out a long breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Well. That happened.”
Rey was finally rubbing her backside through her clothes, wincing. “She doesn’t mess around, does she?”
“Precision is her art,” Barriss muttered, her voice tight. She had finally restored her clothing to order, but her posture was stiff, her humiliation a visible, radiating heat. “And humiliation is her brush. I will be… reflecting on this.”
The walk back to the residential quarters was quiet, the usual post-training banter subdued. They split off at the corridor junctions with muttered goodnights. The unspoken understanding was that they’d all need a little time to let the sting—both physical and psychic—fade.
Shaak Ti’s private chambers were a sanctuary of calm. Low light glowed from crystalline fixtures, reflecting off simple, elegant furnishings and a few curated artifacts from a lifetime of service. The silence here was profound, broken only by the soft sigh of the climate control.
She placed her lightsaber on a stand, the motion ritualistic. Then, finally alone, she allowed the mantle of the Master to soften. A different kind of energy filled the space, personal and unobserved.
Moving to a full-length mirror in her dressing alcove, she regarded her reflection. The wise Togruta Master, the unflappable teacher. She held the gaze for a moment, then, with deliberate slowness, she turned her back to the glass. She looked over her shoulder.
Her hands went to the fastenings of her outer robes. She let them fall, the heavy fabric pooling at her feet in a rust-colored circle. Next came the cream-colored undertunic, dropped carelessly onto a nearby chair. She stood in just the scarlet shorts and her leggings.
In the mirror’s reflection, she could see the faint, rosy outline—a blurred, hand-shaped blush just visible through the thin, scarlet fabric. Bultar’s handiwork.
A slow, private smile touched her lips, one far removed from her teaching smile. This was raw, unfiltered feeling. She reached back and traced the outline with her fingertips, the sensation a bright, sharp spark in the quiet room. The touch reignited the memory: the shocking, crisp impact, the loss of control for that single instant, the collective gasp of her students, the glorious, unfettered success on Bultar’s face.
Heat bloomed under her skin, a warmth that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. Her breath hitched, just slightly.
In her mind’s eye, she replayed it. Not from the Master’s perspective, but from the victim’s. The chaotic lights, the realization of the robe being lifted, the exposure, and then that stunning, perfect strike. The surrender of authority, however brief. The power in that surrender.
Her fingers pressed a little harder, the mild sting a delicious echo. She imagined it happening again. Not as a lesson. As a game. A true contest, with her not as the orchestrator, but as a participant, where such an outcome was a real, tantalizing risk. The thought sent a jolt through her, a thrilling mixture of anticipation and something darker, more visceral.
She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. The image persisted: Bultar’s fierce focus, Rey’s wild ingenuity, Barriss’s sharp precision—all turned against her, not with malice, but with that fierce, playful competitiveness. Working together to put her in her place. To make her yelp. To make her blush before the mirror.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her. The blush on her skin deepened, matching the scarlet of the shorts. This was a fantasy she would never voice, a secret layer beneath the mischief. It was the other side of her teaching—not just the joy of seeing them learn, but the electric, forbidden thrill of being bested by them, of being pulled into their chaotic, humiliating, wonderful world on equal footing.
Tomorrow, she would be the Master again. Unassailable. Wise. A step ahead.
But tonight, in the silent dark of her room, with the ghost of a spank still warming her skin, Shaak Ti smiled at the delicious, impossible thought of losing.
But tonight, in the silent dark of her room, with the ghost of a spank still warming her skin, Shaak Ti smiled at the delicious, impossible thought of losing.
Steam clouded the tiled alcove of the communal refresher, carrying the clean scent of salt-soap and damp stone. Water drummed on Barriss’s shoulders as she leaned forward, her palms flat against the wall. Rey stood behind her, fingers carefully working at the stubborn, twisted linen of Barriss’s undershorts.
“It’s really wedged in there,” Rey muttered, her face close to Barriss’s damp back.
“I am acutely aware,” Barriss sighed, her voice taut. A flinch traveled through her as Rey’s probing fingers found a particularly embedded seam. “Your bedside manner is lacking, Skywalker.”
“You’re not in bed, and I’m not a manner.” Rey gave a final, gentle tug. The wet fabric released with a soft, sucking pop. Barriss shuddered in relief, the tension draining from her shoulders.“Now you,” Barriss said, turning around. The water sluiced over her pale green skin, over the faint pink marks on her thighs from Shaak Ti’s precise strikes. Her own hands were gentle as she guided Rey to face the wall. She pressed her thumbs into the sore muscles of Rey’s bottom, where a faint, mottled blush still colored the skin.Rey hissed, then relaxed into the pressure. “Okay, that’s actually… really good.”
“It’s to prevent stiffness. The Master’s strikes were designed to teach, not incapacitate.” Barriss’s massage was methodical, almost clinical, but the shared intimacy of the act was undeniable. The hot water beat down on them both, a curtain of privacy within the open stalls.A loud, cheerful humming cut through the steady roar of water. Bultar Swan strutted into the shower chamber across from them, utterly naked and without a trace of self-consciousness. She twisted a dial and a new spray of water erupted, creating a competing percussion.
“Don’t you two look cozy,” Bultar called over the noise, her sharp eyes taking in the scene with gleeful insight.She began soaping her arms with exaggerated vigor. “Working out the kinks? Must be tough, carrying all that failure.”
Rey turned her head, resting her cheek against the cool tile.“We didn’t fail. We set you up.”
“And you got the payoff,” Barriss added, her fingers not stopping their work. “While we received the… re-calibration.”
“Exactly!” Bultar beamed, lathering her short-cropped hair into a foamy peak.“I followed through. You provided the distraction, I provided the finishing move. That’s called teamwork, with a clear winner.” She rinsed off, the water highlighting her lean, athletic frame.“A whole month without scrubbing ‘fresher drains. I can already smell the freedom. And the roses I won’t be planting around the meditation spire.”
She watched them for a moment longer, a smirk playing on her lips. Rey’s sulking pout and Barriss’s focused, calm demeanor were a perfect contrast. With a final, triumphant flick of water from her fingertips, Bultar turned off her shower and grabbed a fresh towel.
“Enjoy your aches,” she sang out, wrapping the towel around her torso. She sauntered out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the stone floor, her naked back a testament to her unbruised victory.The heavy door sighed shut behind her. The steam felt heavier suddenly, charged with a new tension.Rey pushed herself upright, turning to face Barriss. The water plastered her hair to her scalp, her three-bun style undone into a dark, wet sheet.
“She’s unbearable,” Rey stated flatly.
“She is correct,” Barriss replied, shutting off the water.The sudden quiet was stark.“In her tactical assessment. We did our part, she did hers.The reward was logically assigned.”
“Logically,” Rey echoed, snatching a towel. She scrubbed her face roughly.“But was it fair? You yanked the robe, I messed with the lights.She just had to swing her hand. My grandmother’s salvaged speeder had more moving parts.”
Barriss considered this, meticulously drying her own geometric tattoos. “Your analogy is crude.But the sentiment has merit.The risk was disproportionately ours. The humiliation was exclusively ours.” A gleam, sharp and analytical, entered her dark eyes. “An imbalance exists.”
Rey caught the look.She draped her towel around her neck. “So we rebalance it.”
A slow, dry smile touched Barriss’s lips.“An equitable redistribution of consequences. Targeting the primary beneficiary.”
“We prank Bultar.” Rey’s own smile returned, wide and full of scavenger’s cunning.“Something good. Something that fits.”
They dressed in quiet unison, the soft rustle of tunics and the click of belts punctuating their plotting. “It should reflect the crime,” Barriss mused, pulling her boots on. “She benefited from a lifted robe and a struck posterior.”
“So something with robes,” Rey said, her mind racing. “And something with… impact.But not our hands. Too obvious.”
They walked back into the corridor, the polished floors reflecting the dim evening glow-lamps. “Her pride is her most sensitive spot,” Barriss offered casually. “The public mirror was her favorite tool for mockery.”
Rey stopped walking.An idea, absurd and perfect, clicked into place.“The training room.The mirrors. What if her own reflection… embarrassed her?”
Barriss tilted her head. “Elaborate.”
“We don’t touch her.The Temple does. We just… arrange the circumstance.” Rey’s words came faster now.“She’s always first to morning drills, right? Before anyone else. She loves an audience, but only if she’s the one performing.”
Understanding dawned on Barriss’s face, her tattoos curving with her grin. “A private performance, broadcast to an audience of one.With a costume malfunction not of cloth, but of environment.”
“Exactly. The floor is already our friend.The mirrors are the witnesses.” Rey’s eyes shone. “We make the stage slippery. We adjust the reflective calibration on one wall, just slightly, so her form looks… ridiculous. Weakened.”
“And when she attempts her usual aggressive opening lunge,” Barriss continued, the plan crystallizing, “the floor accepts the tribute of her dignity. A spectacular, unobserved fall. Followed by the humiliating view of it, multiplied and distorted, from every angle.”
“She’ll be furious,” Rey whispered, giddy.
“She’ll be crimson,” Barriss affirmed.“And she will know it was us. But she will have no proof, only the testimony of polished obsidian and her own stinging pride.”
They had reached the junction where their paths diverged. They looked at each other, a pact sealed in shared, anticipatory silence.The plan was simple, elegant, and deeply mischievous. It honored the rules of their game.It fit the crime.Rey gave a final, cheeky nod. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” Barriss agreed, and they parted, each step toward their own quarters lighter than the last, the ghost of a coming laugh already curling in the quiet hall.
“
“Tomorrow,” Barriss agreed, and they parted, each step toward their own quarters lighter than the last, the ghost of a coming laugh already curling in the quiet hall.
The silence of Barriss’s cell was absolute, broken only by the soft hum of the climate field. She lay on her bunk, staring at the ceiling, but sleep was a distant planet. The memory of the shower’s heat, the sharp relief of the fabric’s release, and the lingering, prickling sting on her thighs refused to dissipate. They coalesced into a low, buzzing energy. It wasn’t anger. It was something more potent, more focused.
She reached for her commlink, its soft blue glow cutting the dark.
Rey’s voice came through, hushed and groggy. “Barriss? It’s the middle of the sleep cycle.”
“The idea we formulated is insufficient,” Barriss stated, no greeting, her voice precise in the darkness. “It’s reactive. A simple retaliation. It lacks narrative cohesion.”
Rey’s sigh was static. “It’s a slippery floor and a funny mirror. It’s classic.”
“It is juvenile.” Barriss sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. “We must escalate the parameters. The punishment should not merely embarrass. It should… simmer. It should be remembered not with anger, but with a heat that lingers in the cheeks hours later.”
A pause. Rey was awake now. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“The core of our humiliation was intimacy,” Barriss said, her words clinical, dissecting. “The Master’s hand making contact. The violation of personal boundary as a teaching tool. What if we weaponize that intimacy, but remove our direct involvement? We make the environment complicit.”
“Go on,” Rey whispered, intrigue coloring her tone.
“The training mats are responsive. They adjust firmness for acrobatic drills. What if they were programmed to become… adhesive? Not painfully so. Just enough that a certain position, say a forward lunge, would require a deliberate, sticky release.” Barriss’s eyes were wide, unblinking in the dark. “She would be trapped, bent over, until she manually peeled herself free. Every mirror showcasing the struggle. The slow, undignified extraction.”
Rey’s sharp inhale was audible. “That’s mean. I love it. But the maintenance droids would override it too fast.”
“Then we think smaller. More personal.” Barriss’s mind was racing, circuits connecting. “Her flight suit. The one she wears for atmospheric drills in the simulation chamber. We could recalibrate the internal climate regulators. Instead of cooling, they pulse heat. In… specific zones. A sudden, unexpected warmth she cannot explain or immediately stop, right in the middle of a complex maneuver. She’d be squirming in the pilot’s chair, flushed, distracted. The simulation logs would show a catastrophic drop in performance for no mechanical reason.”
“Oh, that’s evil,” Rey breathed, and Barriss could hear the grin. “Her pride in her piloting is almost as big as her ego. To be beaten by her own underwear…” Rey trailed off, and Barriss could practically feel the spark jumping the gap. “Wait. That’s it. Not just heat. Sensation.”
“Elaborate.”
“The lining of her panties and bra. What if we weave a conductive micro-filament into the seam of both? Programmable. Linked to a remote droplet we hide.” Rey’s words tumbled out, a scavenger building a trap from spare parts. “Not an electric shock. A vibration. A low, insistent hum. Unseen. Unprovable. We activate it during silent meditation in the gardens. Or during a holographic briefing with the Council of Reassignment. She’d have to sit there, perfectly still, while her clothes… distracted her. Trying to maintain composure. Failing.”
Barriss was silent for a long moment. The image was exquisitely vivid. Bultar, forced into stillness, her competitive fire turned inward against a teasing, physical torment she could not fight. The public context was the cage. The sensation was the lock.
“That has thematic resonance,” Barriss conceded, a thread of admiration in her dry tone. “It inverts the public humiliation we suffered into a private torment she must endure publicly. The punishment is not a single event. It is a sustained state of awareness.”
“And it’s not us doing it,” Rey added, her voice bright with discovery. “It’s her own gear, the Temple, the situation. We’re just… guides.”
“We are architects of consequence.” Barriss lay back down, a satisfied calm settling over her. “The slippery floor remains Phase One. A overt, physical comedy. The underwear is Phase Two. A psychological, sensual siege.”
“We’ll need to distract her while someone grabs her clothes during the laundry cycle.” Rey was already planning logistics. “I know a sanitation droid with a flexible moral programming. We can do this.”
“Tomorrow, we reconnaissance,” Barriss affirmed. “We observe her routine. We identify the optimal moment for maximum discomfiture. But remember, this is just for fun. No need to take it too far, we are besties."