Chapter 28: Rey's revenge part 2
The world became a warm, intimate darkness scented of Rey—of clean sweat, laundry soap, and the faint, particular musk of her skin. The cotton of her panties, still holding the shape and heat of her body, pressed snugly over my eyes and nose. Muffled laughter and shuffling feet echoed around me, directionless. My own breathing, hot and damp against the fabric, roared in my ears.
I stood, trembling, my hands clenched at my sides. Every nerve ending on my punished backside screamed, a persistent, fiery ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. The cool air of the hall kissed the swollen skin, a cruel caress.
“Last ten minutes,” Rey’s voice announced, clear and commanding even through the cotton. “You heard the rules. He’s sensory-deprived. Identify your attacker, Charlie. Guess wrong… well, you’ll find out.”
A wave of quiet, eager anticipation rolled through the space. I could feel them moving, circling. The Force was a chaotic buzz of playful malice around me. I tried to reach out, to sense identities, but my own humiliation and throbbing pain were a static wall.
The first touch was a sudden, sharp pinch on the lobe of my left ear. I yelped, flinching away. “Hey!”
“Guess,” came a chorus of amused voices.
It had been quick, impersonal. “Bultar?” I ventured, thinking of her blunt, aggressive style.
A collective, disappointed “Ooooh” echoed. A different hand, this one, swatted the already-tender crest of my right buttock—not a punishment strike, but a teasing, stinging tap. “Wrong,” said Bultar’s voice, smug and close to my other ear. Her personal correction was a harder, follow-up smack in the exact same spot, making me stumble forward a step.
Before I could right myself, a new sensation: fingers, light and quick, trailed down my spine from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. The touch was feather-light, almost scholarly. “Barriss,” I blurted out, recognizing the clinical precision.
The fingers disappeared. A soft chuckle, not Barriss’s, whispered from my left. Then a warm, open palm smoothed over the burning skin of my left cheek, a gentle, almost comforting rub that was infinitely worse than a slap. It was intimate, possessive. “Also wrong,” murmured Aayla Secura, her breath tickling my neck. Her hand retreated, but the ghost of that touch remained, branding me.
I was adrift in a sea of their whims. A fingertip poked my side, tickling. A nail lightly scratched across my lower back, above the waistband of the shorts. A tug on a strand of my hair. Each was a cryptic signature I failed to decode. Each wrong guess was met with a quick, corrective punishment: a sharper poke, a flick to the ear, a knuckle rubbed hard over my scalp.
“You’re terrible at this,” Rey observed from somewhere in front of me. Her voice was a smirk.
Then came a different touch. A single, firm fingertip pressed against the center of my chest, right over my sternum. It pushed, not hard, but with an undeniable, steady pressure. It began to move, tracing a slow, deliberate line down the center of my torso, over my stomach, through the trail of hair below my navel. My breath hitched. The touch didn’t falter. It dipped beneath the absurdly low waistband of the white shorts.
I gasped, my hips jerking back instinctively. But the fingertip followed, a relentless, impersonal pointer. It wasn’t erotic; it was a clinical examination, a mapping of my most private response to this public torment. A flush of heat that had nothing to do with shame spread from my core.
“No guessing on this one, Padawan,” came Master Luminara Unduli’s calm, melodic voice, laced with dry amusement. The finger withdrew. “Just an observation of physiological reactivity under stress. Most educational.”
The dignified Master’s participation, so cool and analytical, was its own unique devastation. My face burned under the blindfold. The trapped, stiffening evidence of her “observation” strained against the flimsy white silk.
“Oh, looks like someone’s enjoying the lesson,” Bultar crowed with glee.
“He does have a cute butt, I’ll give him that,” Aayla mused, as if appraising fruit.
“Focus, Charlie,” Rey chided, but I could hear the laugh in her voice. “Time’s almost up. Let’s finish with a test. On your knees. Hands behind your head.”
Grateful for any instruction that halted the wandering touches, I sank to my knees. The stone was unforgiving. I laced my fingers behind my head, elbows out, a position that thrust my chest forward and made me feel more exposed than ever.
“Now,” Rey said. “You’ve failed to identify your betters by touch. Let’s see if your mouth can do any better.”
I heard the soft, slick sound of leather being unbuckled. A belt. My stomach twisted.
“Each of us will give you a little… love tap. You will thank the person, by name, and apologize for your earlier incompetence. If you’re right, it’s one stroke. If you’re wrong…” She let the implication hang. “We start with me.”
I braced myself. The whistle of the belt was brief before it landed with a crack across my shoulders. It was a firm, stinging line of fire.
“Thank you, Rey,” I said immediately, my voice tight. “I apologize for my incompetence.”
“Correct. See? Progress.”
I heard her step back. Someone else moved forward. The footsteps were light, almost dancing. The belt snapped again, this time diagonally across my upper back. The stroke was sharper, quicker.
“Thank you, Ahsoka,” I guessed, thinking of her energetic style.
A moment of silence. Then a second, identical stroke landed parallel to the first. “Wrong,” sang Ahsoka Tano’s voice from directly behind me. I hadn’t even known she’d entered the hall. “That was Barriss. I’m over here, sleepyhead.” A third stroke, from a different angle, lower down. “That’s me.”
“Th-thank you, Barriss. Thank you, Ahsoka. I apologize,” I stammered, the pain layering.
Another set of footsteps, heavier, more deliberate. The belt didn’t whistle this time; it thudded, a broad, heavy impact that rocked me forward. It was the distinctive weight of a wider, more utilitarian belt.
“Thank you, Master Luminara,” I said, utterly unsure.
The belt thudded again, in the exact same spot, the pain deepening. “An interesting hypothesis,” Luminara’s voice came from my far right. “But incorrect.”
“It’s mine,” stated a new, haughty voice I recognized as Real Averross. “You flatter Master Unduli by confusing her elegance with my… efficiency.” She struck again, a third identical, ponderous blow. “You may thank me properly.”
My back was a constellation of specific, overlapping pains. “Thank you, Knight Averross. I apologize.”
The final approach was silent. No footsteps. Just a sudden, oppressive sense of serene authority that made the air itself grow still. The belt that touched my back next was not leather. It was smooth, flexible, and unyielding—a training remote’s antenna, perhaps, or a length of polished rod. It tapped once, twice, on each shoulder, a judge’s gavel.
Then, it swept swiftly down, not with a crack or a thud, but with a sharp, sizzling hiss that buried itself in the muscle. It was the single most painful stroke yet, administered with impeccable, devastating control.
I knew. There was no one else in the Temple who could radiate such detached, mischievous authority while inflicting such precise suffering.
“Thank you, Master Shaak Ti,” I whispered, my voice raw. “I apologize.”
The blindfold was lifted. The sudden light of the hall was blinding. I blinked, eyes watering. Shaak Ti stood before me, her montrals framing a face of serene, orange-skinnsed beauty. In her hand was a slender, black length of neuranium-reinforced flexi-cord. She tapped it lightly against her palm.
“Your perception remains lacking, Padawan,” she said, her tone mild. “But your manners, in the end, were adequate.” Her gaze traveled over my flushed, marked skin, the ridiculous clothing, my kneeling posture. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes held a familiar, glittering amusement. She had watched it all. She had recorded it. And she had participated.
And she had participated. The reality of that sank in, a cold stone in my gut beneath all the heat of my skin. Her recording was one thing; her direct, measured stroke was another. It carved a final, authoritative signature across the tapestry of my humiliation.
Before I could process it further, the warm cotton was pulled back down over my eyes. Rey’s scent flooded my senses once more. “Round two,” she announced, her voice bright with malicious innovation. “Same rules. But we’re expanding the field of play.”
A different tension crackled in the air now, sharper, more intimate. The previous round had been about my back, my shoulders—territory already claimed and punished. This new declaration promised violation.
The first contact was a soft, open-handed pat on my left thigh, high up near the hem of the shorts. It was almost friendly. “Barriss,” I guessed, clinging to the hope of her clinical detachment.
A fingernail dug sharply into the same spot, a punitive pinpoint. “Nope.” Aayla’s laugh was a melody of pure delight. Her hand then smoothed over the stinging spot, her touch lingering. “You’re all nerves and no focus, kid.”
I flinched as another hand—smaller, with calloused fingers—swatted the front of my right thigh. The sting was abrupt, shocking. “Rey,” I hissed.
“Correct,” she said, close. “For once.” Her reward was a second, identical swat, then a third in rapid succession, making my leg jump. The pain was bright and localized, a precursor.
Then came a touch on my face. A palm cupped my jaw, thumb stroking my cheekbone. The gesture was absurdly gentle, completely at odds with everything. My mind, starved for kindness, lurched. “Shaak Ti?” I whispered, hopeful and pathetic.
The hand shifted, and two fingers pinched the tip of my nose hard, twisting slightly. “You wish,” Bultar snorted, releasing me. “Master Shaak Ti wouldn’t touch your grubby face right now.” The rejection was its own slap.
I was floundering. A tap on my forehead. A flick to my ear. A pair of hands briefly ruffling my hair into a mess. I threw out names, guessing wildly, missing every time. Each error earned a quick, stinging reprisal on my thighs or backside, the impacts layering a fresh, buzzing pain over the deep ache from the paddle and the belt.
Then the focus shifted, lower. A single finger traced the outer seam of the white shorts, from my hip down along the trembling line of my inner thigh. I stopped breathing. The touch was excruciatingly slow, a mockery of caress.
It circled inward, higher. My muscles locked. The finger tapped lightly, once, against the strained fabric covering my cock. A small, taut sound escaped me.
“No guess?” purred Aayla. I could hear her smiling.
I couldn’t speak. The touch wasn’t hurtful, but its public precision, its targeting, was devastating. It was an annotation of my helpless physical response. Another finger joined the first, pressing down on either side, a gentle, encircling pressure. My hips gave a minute, traitorous jerk.
“Seems the dummy is fully operational,” Barriss observed, her deadpan tone cutting through the humid air.
Laughter, rich and unhindered, wrapped around me. My face burned beneath the blindfold. This was the true test, far worse than the belt. This exposure was total, psychological, stripping me bare beneath their collective, amused gaze.
The touching didn’t stop. A hand—larger, stronger—enveloped my balls through the silk, not squeezing, just holding their vulnerable weight, a hot, possessive cradle. I cried out, a short, sharp noise of pure shame.
“Averross,” I choked, recognizing the straightforward, claiming grip.
“Good boy,” she said, her voice thick with satisfaction. She gave a slight, testing jiggle that sent a nauseating jolt through my gut. “You can be taught.”
She released me, but the memory of that hold lingered, a ghost of utter dominance. I was trembling violently now, my breath coming in ragged hitches behind the cotton. The final touch was the worst. It was the lightest of all: the barest, most fleeting brush of knuckles across the wet patch now blatantly darkening the front of the white shorts.
It was a confirmation, a curator’s note on the exhibit. The touch was gone in a microsecond, but it echoed in my nerves like a thunderclap.
The girls grinned. The acknowledgment of what that moisture meant, of what they had all collectively orchestrated and observed, filled the hall. It was a humiliating equilibrium.
It was a humiliating equilibrium. The cotton blindfold, damp with my own breath and the scent of Rey, was finally ripped away. I blinked, the world a watery smear of light and smiling faces. My body trembled with aftershocks, a live wire of shame and confused sensation.
Rey surveyed me, her head tilted. The glittering ‘SLUT’ on my back felt colder now. “Okay,” she said, clapping her hands once. “Demo’s over. Clean-up crew.” Her words held no kindness, only the efficiency of a mechanic stating the next phase of maintenance. Hands were on me immediately, not striking but gripping. Bultar and Aayla each took an arm, their holds firm.
“Walk,” Bultar ordered, steering me towards the arched entrance to the Temple’s central atrium. My bare feet slapped the cool floor. The small procession—myself, my two escorts, followed by Rey, Barriss, and the others—moved out of the training hall and into the vaulted quiet of the main corridor. Passing Jedi slowed, their eyes widening, then quickly darting away or offering a knowing, amused smile to my captors.
We turned into the atrium, where the sound of cascading water grew loud. The Fountain of Tranquility was a broad, shallow basin of blue-veined marble. Clear water spilled from the mouths of stone convors in a constant, soothing rumble. They led me directly to the wide rim. “In,” Rey said, not unkindly, just as a fact.
I stepped into the basin. The water was startlingly cold, rising to my shins. It lapped against my trembling calves, a shocking contrast to the heat of my skin. “All of it,” Rey amended, nodding at the pathetic remains of my outfit.
With numb fingers, I peeled the damp, pink crop top over my head. It fell into the water with a sad plop. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of the white shorts—now stained and stretched—and pushed them down. They floated for a second, the gold letters catching the light, before sinking. I stood naked in the fountain, the water chilling my thighs, my backside, everything. The cold was a brutal mercy, numbing the fiery pain.
They joined me. Not all of them, but Rey, Aayla, Bultar, and Barriss stepped into the water, their boots and robes soaking instantly. They shed their outer tunics, standing in their leggings and undershirts. Rey produced a bottle of clear liquid soap and a stack of soft, white cloths. She handed them out.
“Arms up,” Aayla instructed, stepping close. I obeyed. She began washing my torso, the cloth moving in firm, circular motions over my chest and stomach. Her touch was thorough, impersonal, like scrubbing a dusty droid. The soap smelled of herbs and citrus, sharp and clean.
Beside me, Bultar took my left arm, lifting it to scrub my armpit and bicep. “You sweat a lot for a guy who just stands there,” she muttered, her scrubbing vigorous.
Rey worked on my back, her hands strong and sure, sliding down my spine, over the welted landscape the belt had left. She scrubbed at the dried glue around the ‘SLUT’ letters until they loosened and floated away. The cloth moved lower, over the burning, paddle-sore curves of my rear. She didn’t avoid the tenderness; she cleansed it, her pressure unwavering.
Then Barriss moved in front of me, her expression one of focused pragmatism. She took a fresh, soaped cloth. “Remain still,” she said, her green eyes meeting mine for a calm second before looking down. Her hand, guided by her clinical precision, washed my inner thighs. The cold water and the rough-soft texture of the cloth on that hypersensitive skin made me flinch.
“I said still,” she chided softly. Her movements didn’t pause. She cleaned my penis with the same detached efficiency she’d use to clean a tool, lifting it, wiping the shaft, the head, beneath. My face was a furnace. I stared fixedly at the stone convor over her shoulder, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. She then moved behind, taking over from Rey, and scrubbed my testicles and the cleft of my buttocks with methodical, exhaustive care.
The intimacy was absolute, and utterly devoid of eros. It was a stripping beyond nudity; it was a reduction to an object being serviced. Their casual chatter continued around me. “Pass the soap,” Aayla said. “His hair’s a mess, someone get that too.” “Think the red’s coming out of his skin yet?” Bultar asked, examining the faded lipstick target.
They rinsed me with cupped handfuls of cold, clear water, sluicing away the suds and the last traces of glitter, sweat, and shame. I stood there, clean and shivering, water dripping from my hair, my skin glowing pink from the scrubbing. Rey produced a cylindrical tin from a pocket in her discarded tunic. She unscrewed it, revealing a pale, pearlescent salve that smelled of kolto and aloe.
“Turn around,” she said. I turned, facing the flowing water. Her fingers, now slick and cool, began applying the cream to my shoulders and back. The salve was a miracle, the pain melting into a deep, soothing coolness wherever she touched. She worked it into the belt marks until they ceased their angry throbbing. Then her hands smoothed it over the full, heated expanse of my buttocks, massaging the strained muscle, erasing the sting of the paddle and the countless smacks. The relief was so profound it felt like a new kind of vulnerability.
Aayla took the tin and knelt in the water before me. She dabbed salve onto the red marks on my inner thighs from the belt and the swats. Her touch here was slower, almost thoughtful. Then, without a word, she applied a small amount to her fingers and gently smoothed it over my penis, which had shrunk from the cold and the overwhelming exposure. The act was so matter-of-fact, so seamlessly part of the healing process, that it short-circuited any remaining defiance in me.
“Thank you,” I whispered, the words automatic, pushed out by a deep, instinctive gratitude for the cessation of pain.
Barriss, finishing her task of cleaning my lower back, gave a slight, acknowledging hum. Rey, rubbing the last of the salve into my lower back, just said, “Uh-huh.”
It was only as the deep, aching tenderness receded, replaced by a faint, cool tingle and the supple readiness of unbruised skin, that the truth crashed into me. This wasn’t mercy. This was maintenance. They hadn’t healed me out of compassion. They had restored the canvas. The thought was a cold sliver deeper than the fountain’s chill. I was being prepared. The clean, numb, freshly medicated state was not an ending. It was an intermission. The punishment wasn’t over. It had simply been reset.