Chapter 24: The Padawan's Panty Parade
Charlie’s good mood was a tangible thing, a cocky little aura that preceded him down the main corridor. He moved with a loose-limbed swagger, his boots clicking on the polished stone. The faint, floral scent of the Room of a Thousand Fountains mingled with the weirdly appealing aroma of salted popcorn from the snack kiosk ahead. He’d just aced his astrophysics seminar, and the memory of Padmé’s lavender lace tanga hidden safely under his standard-issue Padawan robes was a secret, thrilling presence against his skin. Life, for an 18-year-old with a secret, was pretty good.
He didn’t notice the two figures leaning against a pillar near the fountain’s misty entrance, deep in shadow.
“Target acquired,” Ahsoka whispered, her blue eyes tracking him like twin targeting lasers. “Confidence level: obnoxious.”
“Confirming desirable variables,” Barriss murmured back, her analytical gaze noting the spring in his step, the slight smirk. “Ambient crowd sufficient for optimal effect. Proximity to structural anomaly is ideal.” She subtly nodded toward a specific, slightly off-color tile near the fountain’s edge.
“You’re such a nerd. Let’s go.”
They moved in seamless, practiced sync. As Charlie’s foot hovered over the suspicious tile, Ahsoka, with a tiny flick of her fingers, gave the tile’s edge a minute Force nudge. It wasn’t enough to trip him, just enough to create a distracting, audible click.
Charlie glanced down, his rhythm broken.
It was all the opening they needed.
Barriss’s hands came up, not in a dramatic gesture, but with the precise focus of a surgeon. A concentrated pull of telekinesies seized the back collar of Charlie’s outer robe and yanked it upwards and forwards with sudden, shocking force. The heavy fabric flew over his head, blinding him, the sleeves tangling around his arms before he could even gasp.
“Wha—hey!”
Simultaneously, Ahsoka’s power wrapped around the dangling robe belts, twisting them tightly around the already-bunched fabric, creating a snug, binding sack over Charlie’s head and upper body. The whole process took less than three seconds. Charlie stood trapped, his torso and arms imprisoned in his own robes, which were now pulled up to his elbows and knotted firmly at his neck. He was left standing in just his standard-issue tan trousers, his boots, and, of course, the delicate lavender lace tanga that now gleamed against his hips for all the world to see.
A group of younglings carrying gardening tools stopped and stared, their mouths forming perfect little O’s. A pair of Ithorian initiates paused their quiet conversation, their long necks swiveling in unison.
“Ladies and gentle-beings!” Ahsoka announced, her voice echoing cheerfully down the hall. She stepped into the light, arms spread wide. “For your midday edification, the Temple presents a spontaneous exhibit in comparative undergarment aesthetics!”
Charlie wriggled, a muffled sound of protest coming from inside the robe-sack. “Ahsoka! Cut it out! This isn’t funny!”
“The model protests,” Barriss intoned, stepping forward with a critic’s appraising frown. She circled him. “Note the delicate stitching. The choice of a frankly provocative color against a utilitarian background. It’s a bold statement. Reckless, even.”
“Is that… lace?” one of the older younglings, a human girl, whispered loudly.
“It is indeed,” Ahsoka said, striding up to Charlie and giving his bare shoulder a patronizing pat. “Now, model, don’t be shy. The people want a proper look. Strut.”
“I am not strutting!” Charlie’s voice was strained, humiliation heating his skin. He tried to reach for the knotted robes at his neck, but his arms were pinned.
“Then we’ll help you,” Ahsoka said sweetly. She and Barriss each took a position beside him. With a shared, minimal Force push against his back, they propelled him forward.
Charlie had no choice but to stumble into a walk. The cool temple air washed over his exposed stomach and back. He could feel dozens of eyes on him, on the ridiculous lace barely covering him. Laughter began to ripple through the gathering crowd—not malicious, but bright and astonished. He was a walking spectacle.
“The walk needs work,” Barriss critiqued, keeping pace beside him. “Too much defiant stomping. We’re going for grace. For ownership of the look.”
“I’m going to murder you both,” Charlie hissed, his face burning beneath the fabric.
“Threats from the runway are so passé,” Ahsoka sighed. She pulled a small personal holo-recorder from her belt. “Say ‘porg cheese’!”
The soft, familiar sound of Master Shaak Ti’s chuckle cut through the giggles of the crowd. She seemed to materialize from the mist of the fountains, her red-orange skin vibrant against the grey stone, her white markings serene. She folded her hands before her, a picture of composed authority.
“Knight Tano. Knight Offee.” Her tone was mild, but the slight upward curve of her lips betrayed her. “What seems to be the… educational purpose of this display?”
Ahsoka snapped off a jaunty salute. “Just a practical lesson in humility, Master! And textile awareness.”
Shaak Ti’s warm gaze swept over Charlie, who had frozen in place, a lump of bundled robe and shame. Her eyes lingered on the lace tanga. “I see.” She walked a slow circle around him, her montrals tilted thoughtfully. “Padawan. Is this garment regulation issue?”
A muffled, defeated groan came from inside the robe. “No, Master.”
“I suspected as much. The cut is… innovative.” She stopped in front of him. “This theatrics is unbecoming. And you are causing a disturbance.” She reached out and, with a gentle but inexorable pull of the Force, unknotted the robes binding him. The fabric loosened and fell away from his head, collapsing around his elbows.
Charlie blinked in the sudden light, his dirty blond hair a mess, his face flushed a deep, mortified pink. He struggled to pull the robes back onto his shoulders, fumbling with the sleeves, desperately trying to cover himself.
Shaak Ti watched his frantic movements, her expression one of mild, amused disappointment. “Covering the evidence now is rather like closing the airlock after the ship has decompressed, don’t you think?” The crowd tittered.
Finally managing to get one arm into a sleeve, Charlie glowered at Ahsoka and Barriss, who wore identical expressions of innocent triumph. “They ambushed me!”
“And you provided the ammunition,” Shaak Ti said simply. Her voice lowered, but still carried. “Report to my quarters at 1900 hours. We will conduct a thorough inspection of your… non-regulation wardrobe choices. And we will discuss appropriate consequences for paradeing them in common areas.”
Charlie’s shoulders slumped. The promise in her words was clear, and it sent a confusing shiver down his spine—a mix of dread and something else he didn’t want to examine.
“Yes, Master,” he mumbled, finally getting his other robe sleeve on and cinching the belt tightly, as if he could lock the humiliation away.
“The show is over,” Shaak Ti announced to the dispersing crowd, her tone dismissing them all. She turned her knowing smile on Ahsoka and Barriss. “As for you two… a clever bit of mischief. A return to form, one might say.” Her eyes held a sparkle. “But do remember that surveillance works both ways. The universe has a way of rebalancing the scales.”
She gave a final, graceful nod and glided away, leaving the three of them in the suddenly quiet corridor.
Ahsoka exhaled, grinning. “Okay, that went perfectly.”
Barriss adjusted her own robes, the familiar, tender ache in her backside a quiet counterpoint to the victory. “The variables aligned. His predictable route, the distracting tile, the crowd composition. A textbook execution.”
Charlie finally got his robes fully settled. He shot them a look that was equal parts annoyance and grudging respect. “You’re both the worst.”
“Aw, you love us,” Ahsoka said, slinging an arm around his neck and ruffling his hair. “And admit it, you needed that. You were getting way too full of yourself after that seminar.”
“And now you have a special date with Master Shaak Ti,” Barriss added dryly. “A ‘thorough inspection.’ I’m sure it will be very… detailed.”
Charlie shoved Ahsoka’s arm off, but a faint, bratty smile touched his lips. “Yeah, well. Maybe I like her inspections.”
Ahsoka fake-gagged. “Ugh, see? This is why we do it. To purge the creepy thoughts.” She looked at Barriss. “So. Scales rebalancing, she said. You think she’s plotting payback already?”
Barriss gazed down the hall where Shaak Ti had vanished, her expression thoughtful. The lingering sting on her own skin was a potent reminder. “I think,” she said quietly, “the game is always in play. And the Master just reminded us she holds the best cards.” She turned, starting to walk away. “We should enjoy our victory while it lasts.”
Charlie watched them go, rubbing the back of his neck. The scent of popcorn and jasmine felt different now. The memory of the crowd’s laughter was sharp, a public sting. But beneath it, underneath the shame, was a thrilling undercurrent of anticipation for 1900. He adjusted his robe one more time, the lace beneath whispering a secret against his skin, and headed for the library, already dreading and craving the rebalancing to come.
The library’s vast, silent expanse did nothing to quiet the noise in Charlie’s head. He sat in a secluded carrel, a datapad glowing with untouched astrometrics charts before him. Every rustle of a robe, every soft footfall, made his shoulders tense. He kept imagining the whispers were about him, about the flash of lavender lace burned into the temple’s collective memory. The physical memory of the lace itself, a faint, persistent tickle against his skin, was a constant, thrilling reminder of his own transgression and his impending reckoning.
He watched the chrono on the datapad crawl from 1700 to 1730. The waiting was a unique form of torture.
“Couldn’t focus either, huh?”
Ahsoka’s voice, a low whisper beside his ear, made him jump. She slid into the carrel opposite him, Barriss appearing soundlessly at her shoulder like a calm, green shadow. Both of them looked infuriatingly pleased with themselves.
“I’m contemplating the gravitational pull of binary star systems,” Charlie muttered, not looking up from his screen.
“You’re contemplating the gravitational pull of Master Shaak Ti’s hand,” Ahsoka corrected, grinning. She propped her chin on her hands. “Admit it. You’re already sweating.”
Barriss took a seat, arranging her robes with fastidious care. A tiny, almost imperceptible wince touched her features as she settled onto the hard bench. Charlie’s sharp eyes caught it.
“Sore, Barriss?” he asked, a flicker of petty triumph cutting through his own anxiety.
“A residual reminder of strategic participation,” Barriss said smoothly, though a faint blush darkened her cheeks. “It has a certain… focusing effect. You’ll understand soon.”
“He’s gonna understand the meaning of the word ‘thorough,’” Ahsoka sing-songed. “Inspection. That’s a scary word. She’s gonna make you model every single naughty little thing you’ve got hidden in your drawer.”
“I don’t have a drawer,” Charlie snapped, his voice a hushed hiss. “It was one pair. A gift.”
“From Senator Amidala?” Barriss inquired, her tone clinically curious. “The choice of lavender is intriguing. Less a statement of rebellion, more one of… aesthetic appreciation. You wanted to feel pretty.”
Charlie stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. Her calm, analytical dissection of his underwear motivation was somehow more embarrassing than Ahsoka’s blunt teasing. He had no retort.
“He’s blushing!” Ahsoka whispered, delighted. “See? This is why we do it. To peel back the layers. Underneath all that bratty confidence is just a boy who likes fancy underwear.”
“Leave me alone,” Charlie grumbled, finally shutting off the datapad. The numbers were just swimming anyway. “Don’t you two have some ancient Sith holocron to poke or something?”
“Our schedule is delightfully clear,” Barriss said. “We’re invested in the narrative now. We set the first act in motion. We’re here for the sequel.”
He glared at them both, but the fight was seeping out of him, replaced by a jittery anticipation that made his knees bounce under the table. The chrono read 1800. One more hour. The lace felt like it was humming against his skin.
At 1845, he could stand it no longer. He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly in the quiet space. Several Jedi at nearby tables glanced over, frowning. Ahsoka muffled a laugh in her hand.
“Leaving so soon?” Barriss asked. “The binary stars won’t map themselves.”
“I’m going for a walk,” he muttered, shoving the datapad into his satchel.
“Take the scenic route,” Ahsoka suggested, her eyes sparkling. “Past the training salle. I hear the view of the sunset on the spires is beautiful. Very… contemplative.”
He ignored her, threading his way through the labyrinth of shelves. Their quiet laughter followed him out into the corridor. The walk to Shaak Ti’s quarters was a journey through a gauntlet of his own imagination. Every passing Master felt like they were looking right through his robes. Every chuckle from a group of Padawans felt directed at him. The secret lace, once a thrilling private joke, now felt like a beacon announcing his guilt.
He stood before her door at 1858, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The corridor here was quiet, serene. He took a deep breath, trying to summon some of his usual brashness. It felt thin and brittle. He raised his hand, the motion feeling heavy, and knocked twice.
The door slid open with a soft hiss.
Shaak Ti’s quarters were warm, lit by soft golden lamps that cast deep shadows across the rich tapestries and living wood furnishings. The air smelled of incense and tea. She stood by the window, her back to him, silhouetted against the glittering sprawl of Coruscant’s endless twilight. She didn’t turn around.
“Enter, Padawan.”
Charlie stepped over the threshold, the door whispering shut behind him, sealing him in. The silence in the room was absolute, thick and expectant. He clasped his hands behind his back, the standard at-ease posture, and waited. The only sound was the distant, muffled speeder traffic.
She let him wait. A full minute passed, measured by the frantic pulse in his throat. Finally, she turned. Her expression was unreadable, her large eyes dark and perceptive in the low light. She looked him over, from his boots to his carefully arranged robes to his carefully neutral face.
“You reported at 1900,” she said, her voice a low, melodic observation. “Precisely. Not a minute early, not a minute late. An attempt at control, perhaps. A small show of discipline to offset the earlier… indiscipline.”
She took a single step toward him. The space between them seemed to crackle.
“The inspection will now begin,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Remove your robes, Padawan. Fold them. Place them on the bench.”
Charlie’s breath hitched. The moment had arrived, solid and inescapable. His fingers, slightly trembling, went to his belt.
The clasp gave way with a soft click that sounded deafening in the quiet room. He shrugged the heavy fabric from his shoulders, catching it before it could pool on the floor. The air in the quarters was warm, but it felt shockingly cool on his newly exposed skin.
He folded the robes with meticulous,拖延 care, smoothing non-existent wrinkles, buying seconds. The simple tan trousers and boots seemed absurdly mundane now, a stark contrast to what they concealed. He placed the neat bundle on the carved wooden bench as instructed, the action feeling ritualistic and final.
When he turned back to face her, he felt naked despite the clothing remaining. Shaak Ti had not moved. Her gaze was a physical weight, traveling over him with analytical precision. She finally took another step forward, closing the distance.
“The trousers as well,” she said, her voice still that calm, melodic tone. It wasn’t a threat. It was a simple fact.
A hot wave of submission washed over him, mingling with the shame. His fingers went to his waistband, fumbling with the button and zip. He pushed the trousers down his hips, letting them fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them, kicking them gently aside, and stood at attention in just his boots and the lavender lace tanga.
The delicate fabric felt impossibly flimsy, a joke against the solemnity of the room and her scrutiny. Coruscant’s artificial twilight glinted off the intricate lace patterns, highlighting what it barely covered.
Shaak Ti circled him once, a slow, silent orbit. “A gift, you said,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “From someone with refined taste. It is finely made.” She stopped in front of him again. “But it is not armor. It is not utility. It is decoration. A deliberate choice.”
She reached out, not touching him, but her finger traced a line in the air an inch from the lace waistband. “You chose to wear this under your Jedi robes. You chose to carry a secret all day. Why?”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “I don’t know.”
“You do,” she corrected softly. “Was it for the risk? The thrill of knowing something no one else did? Or was it a test?” Her dark eyes held his. “A little flag planted, a silent wish to be… discovered?”
Charlie’s breath caught. Her perception was a laser, cutting through his own half-formed excuses. He looked at the floor, his bravado crumbling. “Maybe. A little of all of that.”
“Mmm.” The sound was neither approval nor disapproval. It was acknowledgment. “And then you were discovered.Quite publicly. By design.” She paused, letting the memory of the corridor humiliation hang between them. “So now we inspect the consequence of that wish. Bend over the back of the divan, Padawan. Place your hands flat on the seat.”
The command was clear, devoid of anger but full of inevitable purpose. Charlie’s heart hammered against his ribs. He moved mechanically, his boots feeling loud on the floor. The rich upholstery of the divan was soft under his palms. He bent from the waist, presenting himself to the room, to her.
The position was profoundly vulnerable. The lace, meant to be a hidden thrill, was now the central exhibit in his own chastisement.
He heard the soft rustle of her robes as she moved closer. He expected her hand. Instead, he felt the light, cool tip of one of her montral horns gently press against the small of his back, holding him in place with minimal, undeniable pressure.
“The material, while pretty, is an insulator,” her voice came from just behind him. “It dulls the lesson. It must be removed.”
Her hands, warm and sure, hooked into the sides of the lace. In one smooth, unfussy motion, she drew the tanga down to mid-thigh. The air whispered over skin that had never known sunlight. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp blush burning from his cheeks down his chest.
“There,” Shaak Ti said, a note of clinical satisfaction in her tone. “Now we see the canvas clearly.” Her montral tip maintained its gentle, pinning pressure. Her hand rested, warm and dry, on the crest of his right cheek. It was not a strike. It was a claiming. A preparation.
“You wished for a consequence,” she said, her voice low and direct beside his ear. “Here it is. You will count them. You will thank me for each one. And you will tell me what you are learning. Begin.”
Her hand lifted, and fell.
A crisp, sharp slap landed squarely on his left side. The sound was shockingly intimate in the quiet room. The pain was a bright, clean sting that bloomed instantly into a deep, throbbing heat.
“One,” Charlie gasped, the word forced out. “Thank you, Master.”
“What are you learning?” Her hand rested on the heated skin.
“To… to think about my choices,” he managed.
“Vague.” Her hand lifted and fell again, a mirror image on the right. The impact was perfectly calibrated, painful but not brutal.
“Two. Thank you, Master.” His voice wavered. “I’m learning that secrets… have weight.”
“Better.” A third strike, lower, making his legs flinch. “Three. Thank you, Master.” Tears pricked his eyes, less from pain than the overwhelming exposure. “I’m learning that wanting attention… gets attention.”
The spanking continued, a methodical, rhythmic education. Each impact built on the last, the heat compounding until his whole backside felt like a single, throbbing entity. His counts became strained, his thanks breathless. His lessons, pulled from him under this relentless, caring pressure, grew more honest.
“Seven. Thank you.” A sob hitched in his throat. “I’m learning I can’t control… how things get found out.”
“Important,” Shaak Ti acknowledged, her hand still moving with that terrible, consistent accuracy. The pain was immense, a roaring fire that consumed his earlier jittery anticipation entirely.
By the twelfth, he was weeping openly, his body limp over the divan, held up only by the gentle pressure of her montral and his own shaking arms. The tears were release, humiliation, and a strange, hollowed-out clarity.
“Twelve. Th-thank you, Master.” The words were a wet whisper. “I’m learning… the difference between a game and a lesson.”
The hand did not lift again. He felt her palm rest flat on the scorching skin, absorbing the heat she’d created. The silence stretched, filled only with his shaky attempts to breathe.
After a long moment, she straightened. The pressure of her montral vanished. “Stand up, Charlie.”
It took two tries. His legs were unsteady, the motion pulling fiercely at the tortured muscles. He turned to face her, not bothering to hide his tear-streaked face or his nakedness. The acute, screaming pain in his backside was a total, absorbing reality.
Shaak Ti looked at him, her expression softened into something approaching compassion, but it was a firm compassion. She reached out and with a gentle thumb, wiped a tear from his cheek. “The lace,” she said, her voice quiet again. “You will put it back on. Now.”
He blinked, confused through the pain haze. “What?”
“You heard me. Put it on.” She stepped back, giving him space.
Baffled, hurting, Charlie bent—a wincing, careful motion—and retrieved the delicate lavender fabric from around his thighs. He stepped into it, pulling it back up over the blazing, sensitive skin. The lace, once a secret thrill, now felt like a hair shirt against the punished flesh, a constant, abrasive reminder.
Shaak Ti watched him, nodding slowly. “You will wear it for the next seven days. Under your robes, as before. Every time you feel it, you will remember this conversation. You will remember that secrets have texture, and consequences have heat.” She picked up his folded trousers and handed them to him. “You will not remove it except to bathe. You will return to me in one week, and we will discuss how it feels.”
This was her genius, he realized. Far more profound than any temporary sting. She was turning the artifact of his transgression into the instrument of his reflection. The punishment wasn’t over; it was just being internalized.
“Yes, Master,” he said, his voice raw. He dressed slowly, each movement a tender ordeal.
“You may go,” she said, turning back to the window, dismissing him back into the world.
Charlie limped toward the door, the lace a whisper of torment with every step. As the door slid open, her voice stopped him one last time.
“And Charlie?”
He looked back.
A hint of her familiar, knowing smile played on her lips. “Try to avoid any loose tiles on your way out.”