Chapter 27: The Scavenger's Revenge Begins
The corridor leading to the main training hall felt like the approach to a tribunal. The honeyed light of dawn spilled across the polished floors, but it offered no warmth. Each footstep echoed too loudly. My skin, still tender from last night’s lace, prickled with anticipation. I’d barely slept, my mind cycling through a hundred possible scenarios for Rey’s ‘equity.’
The vast arch of the doorway loomed ahead. From within came the familiar sounds of a morning session: the hum of activated training sabers, the rhythmic thump-thump of a dueling dummy being struck, the light patter of feet, and laughter. High, musical laughter.I took a steadying breath and crossed the threshold.
The hall was bathed in the spectacular, fiery glow of Coruscant’s sunrise pouring through the massive transparisteel windows. About a dozen female Jedi were scattered across the space, some stretching, others engaged in slow-form drills. I saw Barriss Offee in a corner, her movements precise and fluid as she deflected bolts from a remote. Bultar Swan was already red-faced, locked in a spirited bout with a Knight I didn’t recognize, her green blade flashing with aggressive, inelegant strokes.
And then I saw Rey.She stood in the exact center of the room, a still point amidst the motion. At her feet was a small, neat pile of folded fabric. Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable from this distance.She’d seen me.Her chin lifted a fraction.
There was no way to do this with dignity.I walked towards her, feeling the weight of every glance. A few drills slowed.Conversations dipped. By the time I reached her, a peculiar, attentive quiet had settled over our section of the hall.“You came,” she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of its usual warmth.“I said I would.” My own voice sounded thin.
She nodded, her eyes scanning my standard tunic and trousers.“Then we begin.Strip. Everything.”
A hot flush crawled up my neck. I’d known this was coming, but the directness, the public command, punched the air from my lungs.I glanced around. Bultar had stopped her duel, watching with keen interest.Barriss had deactivated her remote, head tilted. From across the hall, Aayla Secura leaned against a pillar, a blue lekku coiling around her wrist, her smile a slash of amusement.“Here?” The word was a whisper.
“Here,” Rey confirmed, her gaze unwavering.“You made my humiliation public. This is the scale.”
There was no arguing.It was the deal. My fingers trembled as I undid the clasp of my tunic.The fabric felt heavy as I shrugged it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The cool morning air whispered across my bare chest and back. I toed off my boots, then hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my trousers.My heart hammered against my ribs. I pushed them down, stepped out of them, and straightened, standing before her—and the growing, captivated audience—in just my plain, grey underwear.Rey’s eyes didn’t flicker. She bent and picked up the first item from the pile.It was a top. She shook it out, and my stomach dropped.It was a vibrant, shocking pink. A crop top made of a tight, ribbed fabric, cut in a deep, sweeping U that would show my entire chest. “Arms up,” she instructed.I obeyed, lifting my arms like a doll being dressed by a child. She pulled the garment over my head.It dragged down, constricting my ribs. The fabric was thin and cheap, straining across my shoulders. The neckline plunged, leaving my sternum and the flat planes of my pectorals completely bare. The hem stopped a full four inches above my navel, leaving my midriff exposed to the cool air.Next, she held up the shorts. They were a stark, blinding white, made of a flimsy, silky material. They were impossibly small, a scant triangle of fabric meant for someone half my size. “These too,” she said, nodding at my underwear.
I swallowed, hooked my fingers into the elastic band of my briefs, and pushed them down.A faint, collective murmur rippled through the onlookers. I stepped out of them, now completely exposed, and Rey immediately stepped forward with the shorts. “Lift your foot.”
I balanced on one leg as she guided the tiny garment onto the other. The process was clumsy, intimate, and profoundly demeaning. She had to tug them up my thighs, her knuckles brushing my skin.When they were finally on, they sat high on my hips. The leg openings were so narrow they cut into the crease where my thighs met my groin. The front provided a laughably scant pouch, leaving everything outlined and vulnerable. The back was nonexistent; the fabric vanished into the cleft of my buttocks, offering no coverage whatsoever. I felt completely exposed, the air cool on every curve.Rey stepped back to admire her work. For the first time, a flicker of something—satisfaction, perhaps—crossed her face. Then she produced a final item: a small, glittering tube.“Turn around,” she said.
I turned, presenting my bare backside to the hall.I heard a snort—Bultar, probably. I felt Rey’s fingers on the small of my back, steadying me. Then the cold, sticky wetness of glue, and the press of something rigid against my skin. She smoothed it down firmly.“Okay,” she said.I turned back. She gestured to a polished section of floor a few feet away.“Stand there.At attention. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”
I walked to the spot, the shorts riding up even further with each step. The sensation was absurd, a tiny, vicious wedgie secured by the glue. I came to a stop, feet together, hands clasped behind my back, chin up. The pose made my exposed stomach taut, thrust my chest forward. I stared at a point on the far wall, trying to dissolve into the stone.Rey raised her voice, clear and loud enough to cut through all other activity. “Good morning!For the next hour, Charlie here is serving as my personal demonstration dummy. He’s agreed to this as part of a… mutual understanding.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “He is here to experience the consequences of his actions from a position of zero agency. So, if anyone would like to practice a disarming technique, test the focus of your Force push, or simply needs a live, compliant target for a non-lethal exercise… he’s available.”
The silence that followed was absolute.My skin burned. I could feel every eye on me, tracing the lines of the pink top, the cruel cut of the white shorts, the glittering letters I knew were now adhered to my lower back.I didn’t need to see them to know what they spelled. The glue was still cold.It was Aayla who moved first. She pushed off the pillar, her gait a slow, predatory saunter.Her blue lips were curved in that familiar, wicked smile. She stopped in front of me, her eyes doing a leisurely, appreciative sweep from my head to my toes and back up.She circled me once, a low whistle escaping her.“My, my. The packaging has certainly been upgraded since last night. Very… specific.”
She completed her circle and faced me, hands on her hips.“Rey, darling, can I borrow him for a moment? I’ve been working on my precision saber throws.Non-lethally, of course. I need a stationary target that… reacts.”
Rey gave a single, solemn nod. “He’s yours.”
Aayla’s smile widened.She unclipped her lightsaber from her belt. The snap-hiss of the blue blade igniting was the loudest sound in the universe. It cast a dancing, electric glow across my bare skin. She held it loosely, making a few experimental flourishes that made the air crackle and hum.
“Now, just stay perfectly still, sweetie,” she purred, stepping back about ten paces.“This is all about control. And trust.” She adjusted her grip.“I’m going to send this spinning towards you. Your job is to not flinch. It’s going to pass… oh, very close to certain delicate areas.A true test of a Jedi’s nerve.”
The blade felt like a sun burning my vision. The heat from it, even at this distance, was a tangible press against my chest, my stomach, my thighs.She swung her arm back, her body coiling with easy grace. The hum of the blade intensified, a deadly promise.My muscles locked. Every instinct screamed to run, to cover myself, to dive away.I closed my eyes, then forced them open. I stared at the whirling blue light as she prepared to release it, my breath frozen in my lungs, the word SLUT burning on my back like a brand.
The whirling cyan disk left Aayla’s hand with a sharp, centrifugal snap.It sang through the air, a horizontal vortex of sizzling plasma. It did not fly at my head or chest, but lower, aiming for the exposed strip of skin between the hem of my crop top and the waistband of the microscopic shorts.Time distended. The heat of the blade was a tangible wave before it even touched me. I felt the fine hairs on my abdomen crisping.A primal shriek clawed at my throat, trapped behind clenched teeth. My hands, locked behind my back, spasmed.The blade passed so close the light burned my eyes. I felt its searing breath kiss my navel. Then it was past, curving gracefully in a wide, buzzing arc behind me. It returned from the other side, lower now, tracing a path along the inseam of the shorts. The heat was unbearable, a promise of evaporation against the flimsy white fabric.
It completed its loop and smacked back into Aayla’s waiting palm with a solid thwack.The deactivation click was deafening in the sudden silence. A thin wisp of smoke, or steam, rose from my midsection. The smell of hot, clean ozone and singed cotton hung in the air.
My entire body trembled, a violent, unstoppable quaking.I hadn’t flinched.I hadn’t moved. A strange, hollow pride echoed in the vault of my terror.Aayla looked impressed, her head tilted. “Not a twitch,” she said, her voice carrying. “Better nerve than some Knights I know. Good boy.”
She stepped forward and ruffled my sweaty hair, a patronizing gesture that somehow stung worse than the near-miss. Then she turned and sauntered back to her pillar, leaving me standing there, raw and vibrating.The tension in the hall shifted. The demonstration had broken the ice.Bultar Swan was already stepping forward, her competitive fire clearly lit. “My turn,” she announced, cracking her knuckles. “I need to work on my Force-augmented strikes.On the practice droids, I keep kicking straight through. Need something with a bit more… give.”
“Fine,” Bultar said, her voice sharp with competitive glee. “But the droids don’t yelp.Turn around and bend over.Hands on your knees. And arch that back, I want a proper target.” Her tone brooked no argument.
I turned, presenting my exposed backside to the hall. The cool air was a shock against skin already sensitized from last night’s lace and the morning’s scrutiny. I placed my hands on my knees, the stretch pulling the tiny shorts even tighter. I forced my spine to curve, pushing my rear out into the open space of the training hall.The pose was grotesquely submissive.
“Good,” Bultar grunted from behind me. “Hold it.” I heard her step back, then the quiet shuffle of her settling into a fighting stance. The metaphor wasn’t lost on me: I was literally offering myself up for a kicking. The first impact was a blunt, shocking force against my left cheek, a firm push more than a strike. My leg buckled, a sharp yelp escaping my lips before I could swallow it.“Reset!” she barked.I repositioned myself, my face burning. The second kick was harder, better aimed, landing with a solid thump that jolted my teeth. My entire body lurched forward, my ass lifting comically into the air before I stumbled back to position.A ripple of laughter echoed behind me. The third was a swift, practiced side-kick that connected with the soft undercurve, lifting me clean off my toes for a dizzying second.I cried out again, the sound pathetic in the vast space. “Perfect!” Bultar exclaimed, not to me, but to the technique itself.“See the lift? That’s hip-flexor engagement!”
Rey watched from the sidelines, her arms crossed. The smug satisfaction on her face had deepened into something more contemplative, as if she were refining a blueprint. As Bultar, breathing heavily from her exertions, gave me a final, dismissive shove with her boot and stepped back, Rey moved in. “That’ll do,” she said to Bultar, her voice carrying a new, quiet authority.She crouched by her bag.
She stood up holding a slim, metallic tube. She popped the cap with a soft click, revealing a bullet of brilliant, scarlet lipstick. “This outfit needs more flair,” she announced, her eyes fixed on my trembling buttocks. “A little visual aid for the crowd.” The first touch of the waxy pigment on my left cheek was startlingly cold.I flinched. “Hold still,” she muttered, her grip firm on my hip. She drew a perfect, concentric circle, then filled it in with solid, screaming red.The target was impossibly vivid against my pale skin.
“Now,” she said, capping the lipstick and tucking it away. “Touch your toes.” It was an excruciating transition from the arched, presented pose. I straightened, then folded forward, my fingers reaching for my boots.The movement stretched the target taut. I heard her walk away, then return.The whistling crack of a training paddle slicing the air was my only warning.
The first swat landed with a deafening CRACK that reverberated off the high ceiling. A nova of pain blossomed across the red target, so sharp it stole my breath. “One!” Rey counted, her voice clear and merciless.The paddle rose and fell.CRACK! “Two!” Each impact was a flat, comprehensive sting that burned deep into the muscle. CRACK!“Three!” My vision swam.I gripped my ankles, knuckles white. The counting continued, a metronome of punishment synced to the gasps and murmured counts of the gathered Jedi.By “ten,” my legs were shaking. By “fifteen,” soft, involuntary whimpers hissed through my clenched teeth with every strike. The red target area felt molten, a separate, throbbing entity.CRACK! “Twenty!” The final blow landed with extra force, a punctuation mark.A ragged cheer went up from a few observers. My whole body was tensed, frozen in the bent-over position, waiting for release.“Up,” Rey commanded. I straightened slowly, the motion agonizing.The cool air on the heated skin was its own fresh torment. She pointed to the floor in front of her. “Kneel.” My knees hit the polished stone with a painful knock.I looked up at her, her face blurred through my watery eyes. “Beg for more,” she said, her voice low enough that only I and those closest could hear. The command was the purest distillation of the power exchange, a psychological bedrock.My throat closed.
I had to force the words out, each one a piece of gravel. “Please,” I whispered, the sound dry and broken. “Please, give me more.” The humiliation of speaking the request, of giving voice to the charade, was a deeper wound than the paddle.
She considered me, head tilted, then shook her head once.“No. I think you’ve learned that lesson.” She turned and walked toward a stack of meditation cushions near the wall, seating herself on them like a throne. From her belt, she unhooked a hydrospanner—a heavy, greasy tool from her scavenger days—and held it aloft. Then, with a casual, underhand toss, she sent it skittering across the wide mat, well out of arm’s reach from where I knelt.“Fetch.”
Understanding dawned, a cold, heavy sludge in my gut. I looked from her impassive face to the tool glinting on the floor. The silent, watching crowd seemed to hold its breath.I lowered myself onto my hands and knees. The rough texture of the training mat grated against my palms and bare knees. The shorts, already vanished into my cleft, provided no protection.I began to crawl, each movement a fresh, ignominious surrender.
The distance felt vast, a desert of open floor under the gaze of masters, knights, and padawans. My progress was slow, awkward. I kept my head down, watching my own hands move forward, one after the other.The hydrospanner grew larger in my vision. When I finally reached it, I stopped, my face inches from the greasy metal.I could smell engine lubricant and old sweat. I lowered my head, opened my mouth, and took the cold tool between my teeth. The taste of iron and grit coated my tongue.
The crawl back was worse, burdened by the weight in my mouth, my destination the feet of the girl I’d wronged. I reached her and stopped, looking up.Rey took the hydrospanner from my mouth, her fingers brushing my lips. She didn’t thank me.She just examined the tool, then set it aside. “Stand up,” she said, as if just remembering I was there.
As the hour wore on, her creativity escalated.From her bag, she produced a pair of her own simple, grey panties. “Over the shorts,” she ordered. I pulled them on, the soft cotton sitting bizarrely over the tight white silk, creating a ludicrous, lumpy second layer.The crowd chuckled. Then came the final piece: her used training bra, still damp with sweat from her own morning exercises. She unfolded the plain, supportive fabric and walked behind me. “A crown for the king of apologies,” she quipped, pulling it down over my head so the cups sat like blindfolded eyes over my temples, the straps under my chin. The smell of her salt and effort filled my nostrils, an intimate, overwhelming scent of her authority. I stood there, adorned in her underthings, the red target now partly obscured, the word SLUT on my back the only remaining clear statement. The hour wasn't over, but I had been fully remade into her invention.
The hour wasn't over, but I had been fully remade into her invention. Her scent on the bra-blindfold, her cotton clinging over the silk, my own skin a canvas of her red mark and glittering label—all of it was Rey’s statement. I stood there, breathing through the fabric, waiting for the next shape her justice would take.
She circled me once, her boots whispering on the mat. “You’re taking this pretty well,” she mused, her voice close to my ear. “But we’re still on my time. And I think everyone’s gotten a little bored watching you kneel and crawl.”
A new murmur, this one of interest, rustled through the hall. I heard Bultar’s sharp laugh, Aayla’s responding chuckle. Rey’s hand gripped my shoulder, steering me. “We’re changing venues. A little cardio to finish the hour.” She led me, blind and stumbling, out of the training hall’s main space. The air changed, growing cooler, echoing. A corridor.
She stopped me. I heard rustling, then her hands were at my waist, yanking her panties down until they trapped my thighs. The sudden exposure from behind was a cold shock. Next, she grabbed the hem of the white shorts still tangled around my neck and yanked them upward, fully over my eyes, tightening the world into a blur of stifling, perfumed silk. “You’re going to run,” she said, her voice calm and close. “Down this hall to the fountain at the end. Easy.”
But her tone promised it wasn’t. I heard shuffling, giggles, the soft whap of something striking a palm. My heart began a frantic drum against my ribs. “What’s at the end?” I asked, my voice muffled.
“You are,” she said. Then she raised her voice, projecting down the stone passageway. “Ladies! You know what to do. One good hit each. Make it count.” A chorus of whoops and affirmative calls answered her. Aayla’s voice sang out, “Oh, I’ll count alright!”
A hand—Rey’s—smacked my bare backside, not hard, but a starter’s pistol crack. “Go!”
I lurched forward, my steps clumsy and blind. The world was a smear of light through white fabric, the stone floor a hazy strip beneath my feet. I’d taken maybe three frantic strides when the first blow landed. It was a sharp, flat thwack of a rolled-up towel, striking the crest of my left cheek with a sting that flashed white behind my eyes. A voice, maybe Barriss’s, deadpanned, “Posture’s off, Padawan.”
I yelped, scrambling faster. My bare feet slapped cold stone. Another two steps, and a second hit, this one a lighter, teasing slap from an open hand. Laughter. Four more strides, and a new pain—a thin, biting line from a flexible training crop that wrapped around the underside of my right cheek. I hissed, stumbling sideways. “Pick up the pace, sweetie!” Aayla called.
I ran, or tried to. It was a drunken, panicked sprint, each step a venture into a wall of anticipated pain. The corridor echoed with the sounds of my ragged breath, my slapping feet, and the percussive symphony of impacts: the dull thud of a towel, the crisp snap of a crop, the sharp clap of a palm. Each strike was a fresh explosion of heat, layering over the last. “Over here, Charlie!” “Think fast!” “Oops, missed a spot!”
Their voices and laughter swirled around me, disorienting as the blows. I couldn’t tell who was where. My world narrowed to the next footfall, the next searing kiss of punishment. My backside was becoming a single, vast, burning nerve. Through the muffling silk, I heard Bultar’s grunt of effort and a meaty SMACK that rattled my teeth. “That’s for beating me in Form III drills last week!” she barked.
Tears of frustration and pain blurred the little vision I had. I was sobbing openly, each gasping breath a humiliation. The fountain seemed miles away. Another crop strike, high on the thighs now. Another towel, low on the sit-spots, a brutal double-tap that made my legs buckle. I corrected, lurching forward, my arms flailing for balance I couldn’t find. The catcalls were a constant, raucous soundtrack. “Look at him go!” “Red is your color!”
From high above, a familiar, serene presence brushed the edges of my awareness. I couldn’t see her, but I knew. Shaak Ti was watching. The faint, electronic glow of a datapad screen illuminated the blurry shape of the balcony in my peripheral vision. She was recording this. Preserving every stumble, every cry, every vicious red welt rising on my skin for posterity, or for some private lesson I couldn’t yet fathom. The thought coiled in my gut, another layer of exposure.