Chapter 20: Morning After Confessions
Charlie woke to the smell of burnt synth-caf and the soft, ambient hum of Coruscant’s morning traffic filtering through the window. He was on his stomach, face pressed into a cushion that smelled vaguely of floral detergent and ozone. The events of the previous night assembled themselves in his mind like pieces of a shattered viewport—the slap, the exposed lane, the lavender lace floating down into the city’s depths, Mara’s talc-cooled fingers, the profound silence of her sofa.
He stretched, and the motion sent a fresh, bright ache radiating from his backside. He winced, a soft hiss escaping his teeth. The memory was a physical brand.
“Sleeping beauty awakes,” a voice said.
Mara was leaning in the doorway to the tiny kitchen nook, cradling a large, chipped mug. She wore a long, rumpled sleep t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, her dark hair a chaotic cascade around her shoulders. Her green eyes were alert, amused. “You snore. Just a little. Cute, rhythmic puffing sounds.”
Charlie pushed himself up on his elbows, the blanket pooling around his waist. “I do not snore.”
“You do. I recorded a snippet. For blackmail purposes.” She took a sip from her mug and grimaced. “Kriff, that’s awful. Want some?”
“Is it worse than Temple synth-caf?”
“Nothing is worse than Temple synth-caf. This is a close second.” She disappeared and returned a moment later with another mug, handing it to him. The liquid inside was dark as crude oil and smelled acidic. He took a tentative sip. It was terrible. He drank more.
“I replicated you something,” Mara said, setting her mug down on a low table cluttered with datapads. She pulled a small, wrapped bundle from behind a crystal lamp shaped like a dancing Twi’lek. “Early morning errand. Thought you might want to face the world with a bit more dignity.”
Charlie took the bundle. It was a pair of trousers, simple and grey, made of a sturdy, comfortable fabric. They looked like they would fit. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. Put them on. Then we talk.” She turned her back, giving him a semblance of privacy, and busied herself with tidying a stack of holographic posters.
Charlie swung his legs off the sofa, the cool air of the apartment hitting his skin. He stood, letting the blanket fall, and quickly stepped into the trousers. They were a perfect fit. He fastened them, the normalcy of the action feeling like a small redemption. “Okay.”
Mara turned, her eyes doing a quick, approving scan. “Better. Much less ‘intergalactic incident.’ Now.” She folded herself into a large, worn armchair, tucking her feet beneath her. “The lace. The real story. No more ‘tactical deprivation’ nonsense.”
Charlie sat on the edge of the sofa, cradling the awful caf. The warmth seeped into his hands. He looked at her—the frank curiosity on her face, the absence of judgment. The silence in the apartment felt expectant, but not pressing.
He took a breath. “It started with a bet.”
He told her everything. The friendly, incessant rivalry with Ahsoka. The escalating dares—who could steal a clone trooper’s helmet, who could balance longest on a hovering trash can lid. The latest wager: a week of lightsaber polishing duties for the one who couldn’t procure a “trophy” from Senator Amidala’s private quarters.
“It was stupid,” Charlie said, running a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “But Ahsoka’s so… effortlessly good at everything. I just wanted to win. For once.”
He explained how he’d used a maintenance droid schedule he wasn’t supposed to have, slipped into Padmé’s suite during a reception she was hosting in another wing. The place had been empty, silent, gleaming. He’d been aiming for something small, insignificant—a hairpin, a data-chip, anything to prove he’d been there. But then he’d seen the drawer, slightly ajar, filled with a spill of colorful silks and lace.
“It was a moment of pure idiocy,” he murmured, staring into his mug. “I thought, ‘This is better. This is embarrassing. This will really get under her skin.’ So I took a pair. The lavender ones. Stuffed them in my pocket.”
He skipped over the next part, the part where he’d returned to his quarters, the strange, secret thrill of holding them, the impulsive, shameful decision to try them on. He just said, “I must have fallen asleep in them. Woke up late for the party, dressed in a hurry. I was so distracted trying to act normal I forgot they were even there. Until…”
“Until you had your pants around your ankles in a speeder bay,” Mara finished, a slow smile spreading. “And then around your knees in a traffic lane.”
Charlie nodded, heat flooding his cheeks. “Yeah. Until then.”
Mara was quiet for a long moment, sipping her caf. The only sound was the distant whir of a passing speeder bus. “So the punishment in the lane… that was your Master’s response to you slapping her ass?”
“That was the opening gambit,” Charlie corrected, a ghost of his usual sass returning. “The underwear was just… a happy coincidence for her. A gift-wrapped opportunity.”
“She didn’t know about the bet?”
“No. And she still doesn’t. That’s between me and Ahsoka.” He looked up, meeting Mara’s gaze. “You can’t tell anyone. Especially not her.”
Mara held up her hands in surrender. “Your secrets are safe with me. Scout’s honor.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “But let me get this straight. You, a Jedi Padawan, stole a senator’s underwear because of a childish bet, got publicly spanked half-naked over Coruscant for an unrelated offense, and are now hiding out in my apartment wearing my ex-boyfriend’s sweatpants.”
When she laid it out like that, it sounded absurd. Pathetic. Charlie slumped. “Yeah. That’s the story.”
To his surprise, Mara threw her head back and laughed. It wasn’t a mean laugh, but a full, delighted sound that filled the small space. “Oh, kid. You are a glorious mess.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“No, I mean it.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “It’s refreshing. You have no idea how samey everyone is out here. Politicians, bankers, even the smugglers… they all follow a script. You?” She gestured at him with her mug. “You’re writing yours in crayon on the walls. I love it.”
Her approval was a warm, unexpected balm. He felt his shoulders relax.
"the bet’s still on, though, right?” Mara asked, her tone shifting to something more conspiratorial. “Ahsoka doesn’t know you technically succeeded before the grand unveiling?”
“Right. She thinks I failed. She’s probably already planning how I’ll buff her lightsaber hilt.”
Mara’s eyes gleamed. “What if you didn’t just win? What if you won spectacularly?”
Charlie frowned. “How? The evidence is gone. My master threw my pants, with the prize inside, into the lower levels. It’s junk or space dust by now.”
Mara’s smile turned feline. “Evidence can be recreated. The victory isn’t the object, it’s the story. The sheer audacity.” She set her mug down with a decisive click. “I have a proposal. A trade.”
Charlie’s cautious hope faltered. “What kind of trade?”
“I help you win your bet. I’ll even give you the perfect pair to present as your ‘trophy’ from Padmé’s drawer.” She leaned back, surveying him. “But you have to earn it. You have to model for me.”
“Model what?”
“My collection.” She gestured vaguely toward her sleeping area. “I have… a lot. Different styles, colors. I want to see how they look. Consider it an artistic consultation.”
Charlie felt the blush return, hotter this time, crawling up his neck. “You want me to try on your… underwear.”
“I want to see which ones suit you,” she corrected, her tone utterly matter-of-fact. “The pair I give you needs to be authentically humiliating. I need to assess the options. In exchange, you get your winning ticket, and I get a private fashion show.” She tilted her head. “Deal?”
The silence stretched. He thought of Ahsoka’s smug face, of polishing her lightsaber for a week while she laughed. He thought of the lavender lace fluttering away into darkness. This was insane. It was also a path to victory, twisted and strange as it was. He let out a long, shaky breath. “Deal.”
“Excellent.” Mara uncoiled from the chair, all business. “Up. Clothes off.”
His fingers fumbled at the fastening of the new trousers. He felt profoundly exposed, even before he’d removed them, standing in the middle of her cluttered living space. The morning light felt accusing. He pushed the trousers down, stepping out of them, then peeled off the borrowed t-shirt. He stood there, trying not to cover himself with his hands.
Mara didn’t leer. She appraised him with a clinical, artistic eye. “Turn around. Let’s see the canvas.” He complied, his skin prickling. “The masterpiece your Master left is fading,” she noted. “Pity. It was vibrant. Okay, face me. Now, we begin.”
She disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a small armful of fabric. She laid them out on the sofa one by one, a rainbow of silks, lace, and sleek microfibers. The first pair she picked up was a simple, classic black bikini brief in a soft, ribbed cotton. “We’ll start basic. A baseline.”
She didn’t hand it to him. She knelt in front of him, her fingers deftly guiding his feet through the leg holes. Her touch was impersonal, efficient. She pulled the fabric up his legs, her hands smoothing it over his hips, her fingers briefly brushing his skin as she tucked him inside. The cotton was startlingly soft. She gave the waistband a sharp, crisp snap against his hip bone.
“Oww!”
“Too plain,” she declared, ignoring his yelp. “Classic, but it doesn’t tell a story. It says ‘boring’. Off.” She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pulled them back down his legs before he could move.
The next pair was shimmering royal blue satin, cut high on the hips with a delicate lace trim. She repeated the process, dressing him herself. The satin felt cool and slippery against his skin. She adjusted the front, her fingers purposefully arranging him within the sleek confines, a clinical intimacy that made his breath hitch. She stepped back, tilted her head.
“Better. The color works with your complexion. Very regal.” She stepped close again and delivered two quick snaps to either side of the waistband. Snap. Snap. “But the satin lacks… cheek. A senator’s choice, maybe, but not Padmé’s. Not for a secret trophy.”
The third pair was a vivid, flamingo-pink thong made of a barely-there mesh. Charlie made a small, distressed noise as she maneuvered it onto him. The string at the back disappeared between his cheeks, and the front was a precarious patch of mesh. Her fingers were meticulous, ensuring everything was positioned, the sensation foreign and intensely focusing. She didn’t snap this one; she just plucked the single string at his hip like a guitar string.
He jumped. “Kriff!”
“Absolutely not,” she laughed, a genuine sound of amusement. “You’d never convince anyone you chose these. You look like a terrified pastry. Off.”
She selected a fourth pair: sheer black lace, boy-short style with a delicate floral pattern. These felt more substantial, yet the web of lace was revealing in a different way. She tugged them up, her thumbs stroking over his hip bones as she settled them. She spent a long moment adjusting the front, her fingertips tracing the lace pattern over him until he had to look at the ceiling, his face on fire. A firm snap followed.
“These have potential,” she mused, walking a circle around him. “They’re pretty. And seeing a boy in pretty lace shorts… it’s a specific kind of embarrassing. But are they the ones?” She shook her head, coming back to face him. “Not quite. The story isn’t loud enough.”
She reached for the final pair. He saw them and almost backed away. They were a bright, candy-apple red, but the cut was the most extreme yet—a tanga, with sides that were mere strings and a front that was a small, stark triangle of crimson silk. The back was essentially nonexistent. “Mara, come on…”
“This is the shortlist,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Now, lift your foot.”
He obeyed, feeling the slick silk glide up his leg. The process of her putting them on him was slow, deliberate. She guided the scant front panel into place, her touch firm and unembarrassed as she ensured the silk cupped him precisely. The strings at the sides bit into his skin. She turned him around, her fingers tracing the lines where the strings met the minimal back, a touch that made his whole body tense. She turned him back, her critical gaze dropping. She gave the one solid strip of waistband a vicious, stinging snap.
“Yow! Damn it!”
“Perfect,” she breathed, her eyes alight. “These are the ones.”
Charlie looked down. The red was violently bright against his skin. The silhouette was absurd, humiliating, and undeniably striking. He felt utterly on display.
“The color is arrogant,” she stated, walking around him again. “The cut is audacious. It says, ‘I have no business wearing this, but look at me anyway.’ It’s a confession and a challenge all in one.” She stopped in front of him, a smile playing on her lips. “This is what you bring to Ahsoka. This is your trophy from Senator Amidala’s drawer. She will never, ever forget that you had these in your possession.”
She let him stand there, marinating in the sheer exposure of it, for a long moment. Then she nodded, almost to herself. “Okay. You can take them off. These are yours now.”
Charlie didn’t need telling twice. He practically ripped the red silk from his body, the relief of being free of them instantaneous. He scrambled back into the grey sweatpants, the coarse fabric feeling like a shield.
Mara gathered the rest of her collection, folding the red pair separately. She handed them to him. The silk was still warm. “put them on. Your victory depends on it."
Your victory depends on it."
The red silk felt alien in his hand, a scrap of audacious color against his palm. He stared at it, then at Mara’s expectant face. The memory of the lavender lace floating into the Coruscant abyss was a fresh, smarting bruise on his pride. This was different. This was a choice. A deliberate, weaponized humiliation. He let out a shaky breath that was part surrender, part anticipation.
"Fine," he muttered, the word tasting like rust.
He stepped back into the crimson tanga, the slick fabric whispering against his skin as he pulled it up. The strings at his hips were tight, definitive. The front panel felt simultaneously minimal and inescapable. He fastened his new grey trousers over them, the coarse weave a rough contrast to the secret silk beneath. A hidden flag of surrender, and defiance.
Mara watched, her head tilted. A slow, approving smile spread across her freckled face. "Good. Now you look proper." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "The bet's in the bag. But I have a better idea for today. A game."
Charlie’s wariness returned, prickling at his neck. "What kind of game?"
"A roleplay," she said, her green eyes sparkling. "Just for the day. I'll be your mother. A very firm-handed, no-nonsense mother. And you'll be my son. My spoiled, bratty, utterly impossible teenage son."
He blinked. "You want me to call you 'mom'?"
"Only if you want a real quick reminder of my role," she said, her smile sharpening. "The rules are simple. We go out into the city. You act out. You cause a scene, be a little horror—within reason, nothing that gets us arrested. And I have to deal with you. Publicly. Fittingly."
Charlie’s mind raced. The concept was absurd, terrifying, and electrifying. "Deal with me how?"
"A correction in the moment. Maybe a sharp word, or a firm grip on your ear." Her gaze drifted meaningfully downward. "Or, if the infraction warrants it, a more direct consequence. Right there. And if another girl sees your behavior and feels inspired to step in? Well, a good mother accepts help with a difficult child."
The air seemed to thin in the small apartment. Charlie’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat beneath the rough fabric of his borrowed shirt. It was an invitation to chaos, with a safety net woven from his own secret thrill. He thought of the public lane, the whistles, the unbearable exposure that had curdled into a strange, potent memory. This was that, but with a script. With permission.
"Okay," he heard himself say, his voice surprisingly steady. "But I get to be really bratty."
Mara’s laugh was a short, delighted burst. "Oh, I'm counting on it, sweetheart. Now," she scooped up her purse from the table, giving it a purposeful shake. The faint, familiar sound of the talcum powder container rattled inside. "Let's go shopping. I need a new dress. And you're going to hate every second of it."
____________________________________________________________________________
The dress boutique was a temple of soft light and softer music, a world away from the gritty hum of the speeder lanes. Racks of flowing fabrics in every color stretched towards a high, mirrored ceiling. Charlie immediately felt like a bomb waiting to detonate in a room full of glass.
Mara strode in with purpose, her hand a firm, proprietorial clamp on his upper arm. "Now, darling, just try to be patient for mommy," she announced, her voice carrying a sweet, syrupy sharpness that turned the heads of two nearby Twi'lek shoppers.
He saw his opening. He let his body go limp, dragging his feet with an exaggerated, whining groan. "Uuuuugh, mom! This is so boring! I told you, I wanna go to the tech bazaar!"
"Charlie Vale, you stand up straight this instant," she hissed, her fingers tightening. She yanked him upright. The movement was sharp, practiced. "You need to learn patience. And respect."
"But there's nothing for me here!" he moaned, louder now. A human woman examining a bolt of silver silk glanced over, her expression flickering from annoyance to amusement.
Mara stopped in front of a rack of deceptively simple, long gowns. "You can hold my purse," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She shoved the leather bag into his chest. "And you can be quiet. Or do I need to find a fitting room and remind you of your manners?"
A genuine, involuntary shiver traced his spine. He clutched the purse, his brattiness momentarily stunned into silence by the sheer, believable force of her performance.
She selected three dresses and pointed to a plush, velvet-lined chair in the corner. "Sit. Don't touch anything. Don't speak."
He slunk into the chair, slouching with every ounce of teenage resentment he could muster. He watched her disappear into a fitting room, the curtain swishing closed. The moment she was gone, he sprang into action. This was his part of the game.
He didn't just sit. He fidgeted. He kicked his heels against the chair leg with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. He sighed, loud and dramatic, every thirty seconds. He picked up a decorative crystal from a nearby table, tossing it from hand to hand until a shop attendant, a stern-faced Chadra-Fan, scurried over and snatched it from him with a chittering reproach.
The curtain slid back. Mara emerged in the first dress, a deep emerald green that made her eyes look like forest pools. She was stunning. She did a slow turn for the mirror.
"Wow, mom," Charlie drawled, not moving from his slouch. "You look almost human in that. For, like, an older lady."
The Chadra-Fan attendant gasped. The Twi'lek shoppers fell silent. Mara stopped her turn. The warmth vanished from her expression, replaced by a glacial calm. She walked towards him, the dress whispering across the floor. Every step was measured.
"Stand. Up." The words were low, bitten off.
He stood, a cocky smirk plastered on his face. She stopped inches from him. Her hand shot out, not to his face, but to his ear. She pinched the cartilage between her thumb and forefinger, a precise, merciless grip, and twisted.
"YOW! Hey!"
"Apologize," she said, her voice still quiet, but now it carried to every corner of the hushed boutique. "To me, and to these nice people whose afternoon you're ruining."
The pain in his ear was bright and shocking. It was also utterly, perversely grounding. "Sorry," he grunted.
"Louder. And mean it."
"Sorry!" he said, his voice cracking. The smirk was gone.
She held the twist for a second longer, then released him. Her gaze swept the room. "I am so sorry for my son's appalling behavior," she said, her voice regaining its pleasant motherly tone, though her eyes were still chips of ice. "The teenage years are a trial for us all."
She turned and went back into the fitting room without another word. Charlie stood there, his ear burning, the weight of every judgemental stare in the shop pressing on him. The game was real. The consequences were immediate. He slowly sank back into the chair, this time sitting perfectly still, his heart hammering.
When she came out for the second dress, a sleek navy blue, he was a statue. He said nothing. He barely breathed. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval. This, he realized, was part of it too—the relief of obedience after the storm.
The third dress was the one. It was a dark wine red, simple in cut but exquisite in the way it draped her body. She looked at herself in the mirror, and a real, unscripted smile touched her lips. "This is it," she murmured.
Charlie saw his final chance. The perfect, bratty crescendo. He waited until she was preening, turning slightly. He slumped forward in the chair, letting Mara's purse, which he still held, slip from his fingers. It hit the polished floor with a purposeful, echoing thwack. The talc container, his savior from the night before, rolled out, clattering loudly before coming to a stop at the feet of the stern Chadra-Fan attendant.
Everyone jumped. Mara turned, her eyes flashing.
"Oops," Charlie said, not sounding sorry at all. "Clumsy me."
The Chadra-Fan picked up the container, her large ears twitching in irritation. She handed it back to Mara with a disapproving sniff. "Your offspring," she squeaked, "is a menace."
Mara took the talc. She looked from the container in her hand, to Charlie’s feigned innocent face, to the dress she adored. Something cold and decisive settled in her gaze. "You are absolutely right," she said to the attendant, her voice sweet as poisoned candy. "He is. And he's about to learn why we don't interrupt a lady when she's found the perfect dress."
She turned to the two Twi'lek women, who had been watching the entire scene with rapt fascination. "Ladies," Mara said, her tone shifting to one of weary, communal motherhood. "Would you mind a fellow mother? I need to correct this, and I'd rather not scuff the floor of this lovely shop. Could you hold him for me? Just for a moment."
The Twi'lek women looked at each other. The taller one, her blue lekku twitching with intrigue, smiled. "Of course, dear. Boys need firm guidance."
Before Charlie could process the escalation, they moved. They were graceful, strong. Each took one of his arms, their grips firm and unyielding. They guided him, stumbling, to a clear space of floor near the changing rooms, out of the main aisle but still entirely visible in the mirrors.
"M-mom?" he stammered, the bravado finally cracking.
"Hush," Mara said, approaching. She didn't ask him to bend over. She simply placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed down. The Twi'lek women followed the pressure, guiding him forward until he was bent at the waist, supported by their hold on his arms. His back was to the main room, but his reflection was clear in the wall of mirrors ahead—face flushed, eyes wide, held helplessly in place by two beautiful strangers.
Mara didn't lift the dress. She gathered the elegant wine-red fabric in one hand, holding it clear. Her other hand, holding the talc canister, came down in a swift, sharp arc.
THWACK.
The solid plastic container landed across the seat of his grey trousers with a sound like a cracking whip. It wasn't the flat palm of her hand; it was a focused, stinging line of fire. He yelped, jerking against the women's holds.
"Hold him steady, please," Mara said, her voice calm.
THWACK. THWACK.
She delivered two more, rapid and precise, on the same tender spot. The pain was intense, bright, and shockingly public. He could see the other shoppers in the mirror, watching. The Chadra-Fan had her hands over her mouth, her large eyes wide. A human man had stopped adjusting his tunic and was staring openly.
"This," Mara said, punctuating the word with another THWACK, "is for the disrespect." THWACK. "This is for the disruption." THWACK. "And this," she said, delivering a final, searing blow that made his knees buckle, "is so you remember this feeling the next time you think about embarrassing me."
She stepped back, releasing the skirt of her dress. She gave the talc container a little shake. "Now. Are you going to sit quietly like a civilized being while I pay for this?"
He was breathless, burning, humiliated beyond any previous measure. The women still held his arms. He nodded frantically, unable to speak.
"Good boy." Mara smiled at the Twi'leks. "Thank you so much for your assistance. It takes a village, doesn't it?"
The women released him, smiling back. "Our pleasure," the taller one purred, giving Charlie's now-tenderized rear a proprietary little pat that made him jump. "He has a very responsive attitude."
Mara paid for the dress, changing back into her clothes with swift efficiency. Charlie stood by the door, unable to sit, the ghost of the talc container imprinted on his nerves. The game had shifted. The lines had blurred. The woman in the wine-red dress who took his arm to leave was both Mara and "mom," and the thrilling, terrifying authority she wielded was now a shared, public commodity.
"Lunch next," she said cheerfully as they stepped onto the bustling walkway, her grip on his arm firm and guiding. "And you're going to sit on a very hard chair. Think about your choices." She leaned in, her breath warm against his still-hot ear, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear. "You're doing so well, darling. Such a good, bratty boy."
The city swam around him, a river of noise and light. The sting in his backside was a constant, thrilling compass point. He had no idea where she was leading him next, but he knew, with a certainty that twisted his stomach and lightened his heart, that he would follow. The day was far from over.