Chapter 29: Part 3
The coolness of the salve was a lie.
It soaked into my skin, a phantom comfort that did nothing to touch the deeper chill settling in my bones. I stood in the fountain, water dripping from my hair, my body humming with a false sense of reprieve. The physical pain was a memory, a faint echo beneath the kolto’s numb kiss. But the silence of the girls around me was louder than their laughter had ever been.
Rey capped the tin of salve with a soft click. The sound was final. Bultar and Aayla released my arms, stepping back out of the water. They shook the moisture from their boots, their expressions unreadable. Barriss wrung out her cloth with methodical precision, her green face placid.
I turned, the water sloshing around my knees. I looked at them, clean and pristine in their soaked leggings and tunics, and then I dared to glance over my own shoulder, down at the skin of my backside. It was smooth, unmarked, the pale cream of the salve the only evidence of what had been. I ran a hand over it. It felt like someone else’s skin. New. Vulnerable. Ready.
As I inspected my healed bottom, Rey’s smirk grows. The other girls' teasing is a constant, scalding backdrop.
“All better?” Rey asked, her voice syrupy with false concern.
Before I could form a word, she moved. Her hands went to the waistband of her own leggings, hooking her thumbs into the fabric. Not the leggings themselves—beneath them. My breath caught in my throat.
‘Time for the finale,’ Rey purrs.
She hooked her thumbs into her own panties and peeled them down her thighs with a dramatic slowness, letting me salivate at the view, then stepped out of them. She held them aloft—a simple pair of white cotton, dotted with tiny, cheerful porgs. The same pair. A trophy from a prank wars past, from when I’d managed to pants her in the refectory, a fleeting victory that had cost me weeks of retaliation. The fabric was soft, worn from washing, intimately shaped.
‘Last ten minutes,’ she announces. ‘Anyone can approach. Anything goes, so long as it's not permanent. Let's see how well our naughty padawan can identify his betters.’
The white cotton with little porg designs, the same pair from when I pantsed her, is still warm when she puts them over my head, blindfolding me completely.
The world vanished, replaced by a soft, scent-filled darkness. Rey. Sunshine, leather, and the faint, clean smell of her skin infused the cotton, a perfume of personal history and present humiliation. It was damp from the fountain water on her hands, clinging to my eyebrows and the bridge of my nose.
I hear the eager murmur of the girls discussing their plans and I blush, which they react to.
“Look at that, he’s turning pink right through the blindfold,” Ahsoka’s voice chirped from my left.
“Nervous system is fully operational,” Barriss noted, her tone clinical.
“Let’s not keep him waiting,” Aayla said, her voice a liquid ripple in the dark.
I stood, naked, clean, and utterly blind. The air on my wet skin was a thousand tiny needles. I strained my ears, trying to parse direction from the rustle of robes, the soft pad of bare or booted feet on stone. The Force was a cocktail of their intentions—playful, sharp, curious, dominant. It offered no clarity, only a rising wave of anticipation that made my stomach clench.
The first touch is a featherlight stroke down my spine—soft, teasing fingers that trace the curve of my lower back. I gasp, trying to place the owner. The touch was unhurried, a slow descent from the nape of my neck to the very top of my buttocks. It was impossibly light, a ghost of a caress that raised every hair on my body.
A whisper in my ear: ‘Guess who, sweetheart.’ The voice is Aayla’s, sultry and amused.
Her breath was warm through the cotton. The proximity, the intimacy of the whisper right after that teasing touch, scrambled my thoughts. “A-Aayla,” I stammered.
Before I can answer, a sharp slap lands on my right cheek, followed by a low laugh.
The impact was crisp, a bright, stinging punctuation to her whisper. It wasn’t a punishing blow, but a definitive one. “Correct,” she murmured, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. “A point for observation.” Her hand smoothed over the spot she’d struck, a brief, possessive rub. “Minus several for tardiness.”
Then the space around me emptied. I felt her step back. The silence pooled again, deeper this time.
A new touch. Not a slap. A pinch. Sharp, precise, on the sensitive flesh of my left side, just above my hip bone. I jerked.
“Guess,” commanded Bultar’s voice, blunt and expectant.
“Bultar,” I said quickly.
The pinch twisted, vicious. “Wrong.” It was Ahsoka’s voice, bright with triumph. She released the skin, and a different hand—broader, stronger—landed a firm, open-handed smack on the same spot. “That was me, genius. That’s Bultar.” The second smack was heavier, a corrective thud.
“Thank you, Ahsoka. Sorry. Thank you, Bultar. Sorry,” I babbled.
Then hands are on me. Not one pair. Many.
Fingers skated over my ribs, tickling. A palm pressed flat against my sternum, holding me steady. A nail scraped a slow, deliberate line from my shoulder blade to the base of my spine. Someone’s knuckles brushed the back of my thigh. Another hand ruffled my hair, messing it. A thumb traced the line of my jaw.
I strain to identify each touch.
“Luminara?” I guess as the clinical scrape continues down my spine.
A soft, disapproving tsk from my far right—Master Unduli’s actual location. The scraping nail dug in harder for a second. “Impertinent,” said Depa Billaba’s low, melodic voice, right behind me. Her touch withdrew.
A new assault. Two hands, small and calloused, seized my buttocks, giving them a brisk, impersonal squeeze. “Rey!” I yelped.
A hard flick to my right nipple answered me. “Nope,” said Rey, from somewhere in front. The squeezing hands kneaded once, then delivered a rapid volley of five stinging slaps to the undercurve. “That’s Barriss saying hello.”
I groaned, my skin blooming with fresh heat. The touches came faster, overlapping. A feather traced the inside of my elbow. A firm grip encircled my bicep. Something soft—a lekku tip?—brushed across my collarbone. A sharp tap on my kneecap. I threw out names, a desperate litany. “Ahsoka! Shaak Ti! Averross! Aayla again!”
Each wrong guess earned a punishment. A sharper pinch. A flick to the ear. A swift, stunning slap to the back of my thigh that made my leg buckle. I was adrift in a sea of sensation, each touch a wave crashing over my senses, eroding my focus. The warm, intimate dark of the blindfold became a prison of unknowing.
The touches began to coalesce, to focus. They withdrew from my limbs, my torso, and converged with a silent, unanimous purpose. Hands, so many hands, settled on my healed, salve-slick backside. Not striking. Holding. Cupping the full curves, tracing the lower hemispheres, exploring the freshly anointed territory with a proprietary curiosity.
One hand, with long fingers, spanked me slowly, almost thoughtfully, the sound a wet, measured crack in the quiet hall. Another kneaded the opposite cheek. A third traced the cleft between with a terrifying, gentle precision.
I was panting now, my breath hot and frantic against the cotton. I couldn’t guess. The identities were lost in the symphony of grasping, groping hands. It was just them. The collective. My betters.
“He’s all out of ideas,” cooed Aayla’s voice from the swirling dark.
“Then we teach,” stated Real Averross, her voice hard.
The spanking changed. It was no longer about identification. It was rhythmic. Methodical. A hand fell, then another on the opposite side, then another, then another. A continuous, overlapping rain of slaps that had no single origin. It was a storm breaking over me. The sharp, building pain wiped my mind clean of names, of thought. There was only the sting, the sound, the overwhelming, anonymous attention.
I lost count. I lost time. I sagged forward, only to be pulled upright by hands on my shoulders, my hips. The slaps continued, the salve doing nothing now against the fresh, building fire.
Finally, they stopped.
The silence was a physical shock. My backside throbbed in unison, a hot, pulsating heartbeat of pure sensation. The hands lingered, a dozen points of heat and pressure, then slowly, one by one, they lifted away.
The last to leave were two hands that gave a final, almost affectionate squeeze.
Then, the blindfold was ripped away.
The light of the training hall was blinding. I blinked, tears of pain and disorientation blurring the ring of faces looking back at me. They were all there, arranged in a loose circle. Rey, her arms crossed, a satisfied tilt to her head. Aayla, smiling like a tooka who’d got the cream. Bultar, cracking her knuckles. Ahsoka, grinning. Barriss, looking mildly intrigued. Averross, wearing a smirk of pure dominance. Depa Billaba and Luminara Unduli stood slightly apart, their expressions unreadable but present. And Shaak Ti, my Master, at the very back, her arms tucked into her sleeves, her face a serene mask, but her eyes holding that familiar, glittering witness.
I stood there, naked, heaving for breath, my skin glowing a furious, uniform pink from the waist down.
Rey stepped forward. She didn’t speak. She simply hooked her fingers back into the waistband of her porg-patterned panties, still on my head, and pulled them down, letting them rest around my neck like a sweaty, absurd scarf.
'You look cute like that." She admits.
The porg-patterned cotton around my neck was a damp, mocking collar. Rey’s smirk was a brand. My entire backside hummed with a fresh, pink heat, a stark contrast to the cool numbness the salve had provided just minutes before. They’d re-broken the peace they’d manufactured, and the ache was a deeper, more familiar companion.
“He can’t even stand straight,” Bultar observed, a note of professional critique in her voice.
“The foundation is tender,” Barriss added, her tone suggesting a structural assessment.
From the back of the group, Shaak Ti finally moved. Her approach was silent, a ripple of calm through the charged air. She didn’t look at the others. Her crimson eyes were on me, holding a depth of knowing that made my skin prickle more than any slap. She stopped behind me. Her presence was a cool shadow against my fire.
“Such a fuss over a little character-building,” she murmured, her voice for me alone.
Then her hands, cool and dry, settled on my throbbing buttocks. Her touch was not a spank. It was a firm, encompassing grip. A gasp caught in my throat. Then I felt it—not through her hands, but through the flesh itself. A deep, resonant warmth, blooming from within the muscle, spreading outwards from her palms. It was the Force, not as a weapon or a tool, but as a profound, cellular intimacy. The sharp sting of the spanking dissolved, not into numbness, but into a liquid, golden warmth that seeped into the bone. The tension unraveled. A low, shuddering moan escaped my lips before I could cage it.
I moan shyly.
The sound was small, helpless, and echoed in the quiet hall.
“See? Grateful,” Shaak Ti said lightly, her hands giving a final, almost possessive squeeze before releasing me. The healing energy lingered, a phantom comfort under a now-unblemished surface.
Eager to take part, Ahsoka bounded forward, her blue and white montrals swaying. “My turn, my turn!” she chirped, her bright eyes gleaming with competitive mischief. She stopped directly in front of my kneeling form. Her Jedi miniskirt, already short, concealed nothing as she bent at the waist, presenting her backside to me. The fabric rode up.
“You liked Rey’s, but mine are a classic,” she said, her voice muffled slightly.
She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her own underwear—simple, white, cotton briefs, the kind a young padawan might wear. She peeled them down her thighs with a deliberate, theatrical slowness, revealing the smooth, blue-streaked skin of her lower back and the full curves of her own backside for a breathtaking second before stepping out of them. She shook one leg, then the other, freeing herself from the garment.
She straightens, holding the small, white bundle. She reaches up, pulling Rey’s porg-patterned panties from my neck back up over my eyes, plunging me into the familiar, scented darkness of Rey’s world. Then, without pause, she layers her own panties over them. Ahsoka’s. The cotton is different—thinner, softer, carrying the faint, clean scent of her, like ozone and citrus soap.
She pulls Rey's panties up over my eyes, then puts hers over them, further blinding me.
The world is now a double-layered black, a silent, intimate space filled with the commingled ghosts of two very different women. The pressure on the bridge of my nose is firm. My hearing becomes my only compass.
The girls' hands are back on me.
They land everywhere at once, a sudden orchestra of touch on my newly-healed, hypersensitive skin. I flinch, trying to anchor myself, to parse each signal.
I strain to identify each touch.
A sharp, vicious pinch high on my inner thigh makes me jerk. “Kriff!” I hiss.
A cascade of cold water splashes down the center of my back, shocking a gasp from me. It drips down my spine into the cleft of my buttocks.
Before I can react, a body presses close. Soft lips find mine, wet and insistent, planting a firm, messy kiss that tastes of salt and tea. It’s gone as quickly as it came.
Fingers hook into the imaginary waistband of my non-existent shorts. A hand yanks the crotch fabric aside—a brutal, phantom gesture—and a swift, sharp flick lands directly on my testicles. The nauseating jolt of pain folds me in half.
Another hand, open and heavy, slaps my sore bottom, making me yelp. The impact is loud in the dark.
“Knees,” a voice commands—Bultar’s, I think. Hands shove my shoulders down.
I'm pushed to my knees, the stone unforgiving against my kneecaps.
Then a new warmth. A soft, wet tongue traces a slow, deliberate circle around my left nipple. The sensation is so alien, so focused, that I freeze. The tongue flicks the nipple to a tight peak, then repeats the process on the right side. A low, involuntary sound rumbles in my chest.
A warm, wet tongue traces my nipples.
The tongue withdraws. A different touch replaces it. A soft, hesitant hand cups my cheek. The palm is smooth, the fingers long. The touch is analytical, tracing the line of my jaw, the curve of my ear, but there’s a deep curiosity in the exploration, a quiet intensity.
A soft, hesitant hand cups my cheek—Barriss, I think, her touch analytical yet deeply curious.
Her hand leaves my face. It trails down my neck, over my collarbone, down my chest. It pauses at my stomach, then slides around to my back. Her touch is methodical, mapping the terrain of my spine. Then her hands settle on my buttocks, her cool, clinical fingers exploring the curves Shaak Ti had just healed. She kneads the flesh gently, then more firmly, as if assessing resilience.
I nervously let her hand roam.
Her exploration grows bolder. One hand stays on a cheek, holding me steady. The other traces the cleft with a single, probing finger. The touch is not cruel, but it is inexorable. My breath hitches, my whole body tensing. The finger presses, slowly, against the tight ring of muscle. It doesn’t force. It insists. And in a moment of sheer, overwhelmed surrender, I relent.
The finger slips inside, a shallow, shocking intrusion. It’s just the tip, a clinical invasion. Barriss goes still. I can feel her focused attention, her analytical mind processing this new data. She withdraws the finger slowly.
I can hear her and Ahsoka licking Barriss' dirty fingers out of curiosity after.
In the absolute silence of my blindfolded world, I hear it. A soft, wet sound. A thoughtful hum from Barriss. Then a giggle from Ahsoka. “Salty,” Ahsoka whispers, followed by another, more deliberate lick. “Weird.”
Then, a sharp, crisp spank lands on my left cheek. It’s not punitive, but playful, a period at the end of their strange sentence.
A spank followed by a giggle that has to be Aayla.
The giggle is light, melodic, and utterly delighted. It hangs in the air, a signature as clear as a name.
It hangs in the air, a signature as clear as a name.
The darkness beneath the twin layers of cotton was absolute, a silent void punctuated only by my own ragged breath and the phantom impressions on my skin. The lingering, clinical curiosity of Barriss’s touch was a brand. My body thrummed with a confused energy, a cocktail of sharp stings and deeper, unnameable aches. The cool air of the hall felt like a living thing against my wet skin.
Then, a new warmth bloomed against the nape of my neck. It was breath, slow and deliberate, heating a small patch of skin. The exhale carried the faint scent of mint and something floral—nerve tea, maybe, or a soap I didn’t recognize.
A soft whisper followed, the lips almost brushing my ear. “Such a good boy.” The voice was a low murmur, impossible to place, smoothed of all identifying edges by the hush. It wasn’t Rey’s Jakku roughness, nor Aayla’s purr. It was just a ghost of approval that made my spine straighten and my stomach tighten with a confusing jolt.
Before I could even process the words, a new sensation cut through the dark. A firm, unyielding pressure tapped the inside of my right thigh, high up near my groin. Tap-tap-tap. It was the rounded, leather-bound tip of a riding crop. The touch wasn’t a strike; it was a question, a teasing promise of what that tool could do. It traced a slow, suggestive line upward, then retreated.
“Getting a little excited down there, aren’t we?” Ahsoka’s voice, unmistakably bright and close, giggled from my left.
My denial died in my throat as a vicious, twisting pinch seized the flesh of my left buttock. I yelped, the sound sharp and undignified in the vast hall.
“Definitely Bultar,” I gasped, recognizing the blunt, efficient cruelty of it.
Her competitive snicker was her only confirmation, a short, harsh sound of satisfaction.
Then, a different heat. Soft, full lips pressed against the small of my back, right above the crest of my buttocks. The kiss was wet, warm, and lingered for a heartbeat too long. “I bet you’re liking this!” Ahsoka whispered directly into my skin, her voice vibrating through me.
Her hand, small and strong, darted between my legs from behind, giving my scrotum a gentle, encompassing squeeze before vanishing as quickly as it came. It was less an assault and more a casual, proprietary check, which was somehow worse.
A sharp, crisp slap landed on my left cheek, reigniting the fire there. I yelped again, jerking forward.
Bultar’s snicker came again, closer this time. “Mine was better,” she declared to the room.
“Let’s not be crude,” a smooth, liquid voice murmured. A warm, wet sensation—the flat of a tongue, unmistakably—dragged slowly from the base of my spine up to my shoulder blades. The path was shockingly intimate, a claiming. Aayla’s purr vibrated against my skin. “There’s an art to it.”
The crop returned. This time it wasn’t a tap. It was a swift, precise sting across the front of my same thigh, a bright line of pain that made my leg flinch. “Mind your form, Padawan,” Master Depa Billaba’s calm, melodic voice instructed, followed by a soft, almost regretful, “My apologies. The crop has a mind of its own sometimes.”
Her apology, so sincere and utterly at odds with the act, was more destabilizing than the pain. It suggested a world where this was normal, where correction and courtesy existed in the same breath. The crop tapped my thigh once more, a lighter, almost chiding touch.
“Enough cataloging his reactions,” Real Averross’s voice cut through, haughty and impatient. “He’s pliant. He’s ready. The lesson needs its conclusion.”
Hands grasped my shoulders, not gently. They turned me roughly on the stone, my knees scraping. I was pushed forward until my forehead and forearms pressed against the cool floor. The position arched my back, presenting my thoroughly examined and punished backside to the open air—and to them. The blindfold was a blessing and a curse. I could see nothing, but I could hear everything: the soft shift of robes, the click of a boot on stone, the quiet, collective intake of breath.
“The finale requires a proper tool,” Shaak Ti’s voice stated. She wasn’t asking. “Rey, the paddle from the wall. The Kessel Run model, I think. It has a nice weight.”
My blood went cold. The Kessel Run was a broad, heavy oval of polished neuranium wood, drilled with aerodynamic holes. It was a joke among the younger knights—a paddle so notorious it had a name. Its strokes were deep, thunderous, and left a unique, honeycombed pattern on the skin.
“Oh, excellent choice,” Aayla purred.
I heard Rey’s footsteps retreat and return. A new weight entered the room, a subtle change in the air pressure. I could almost smell the oiled wood.
“Since he failed so spectacularly at identifying his betters,” Shaak Ti continued, her voice a serene lecture, “we shall identify ourselves to him. One stroke. Each. Your name. Your rank. His failure. Let him count them. Let him learn the weight of his disregard.”
A hand, cool and familiar, settled on the small of my back. Shaak Ti’s. It was a anchor, a point of contact that was also a sentence. “We will begin with our guest of honor, who started this particular game.” Her hand lifted.
The first impact was a universe of sound and feeling. It wasn’t a crack, but a deep, resonant THWUMP that vibrated through the stone floor into my bones. The pain was immediate, a vast, blooming shock that erased thought.
“Rey Skywalker,” Rey’s voice announced, clear and firm from directly above me. “Jedi Knight. For pantsing a superior in the refectory and failing to anticipate consequences.”
Before the first wave could even crest, the second landed just below it, overlapping the fiery imprint. THWUMP.
“Bultar Swan. Jedi Knight.” Her voice was tight with competitive glee. “For general insubordination and a smart mouth.”
THWUMP.
“Aayla Secura. Jedi Knight.” A sigh of pleasure accompanied the declaration. “For the sheer audacity of thinking you wouldn’t get caught.”
The blows fell in a terrible, rhythmic cadence. Each was a world of pain, a distinct explosion that layered upon the last. I lost count. I tried to cling to the names, the reasons, but they dissolved in the fire.
THWUMP. “Barriss Offee. Jedi Knight. For losing our last sparring match."
THWUMP. “Ahsoka Tano. Jedi Knight. For fun! ”
THWUMP. “Real Averross. Jedi Knight. For existing in a state of perpetual need for correction."
The paddle seemed to grow heavier with each stroke. My body jolted forward with each impact, my forearms scraping against the stone. Tears of pure, animal pain soaked into the blindfold. A broken sound, half-groan, half-sob, escaped my clenched teeth with every breath.
Then, a pause. The absence of the next expected blow was its own kind of terror. I heard the soft rustle of heavier robes.
THWUMP. This stroke was different. It was lighter, sharper, delivered with a flawless, controlled technique that made the nerves sing a higher, clearer note of agony.
“Depa Billaba. Jedi Master.” Her voice was serene, almost meditative. “For distracting my Padawan during her lightsaber drills.”
Another rustle. This one was the sound of absolute, poised authority.
THWUMP. The final stroke was not the hardest, but it was the most perfect. It landed dead center, a punctuation mark that seemed to resonate in my very soul. The pain was so profound it felt clean, a white-hot brand of absolute finality.
“Shaak Ti. Your Master.” Her voice was soft, close to my ear, as the deep, throbbing ache radiated outwards. “For forgetting your place.”
Silence, thick and heavy, broken only by my shuddering, wet breaths. The pain was a living entity now, a second skin of pure, concentrated heat. I was molten. I was ash.
The blindfold was lifted. The light was a physical assault. I blinked, vision swimming, and saw the paddle, the infamous Kessel Run, being passed from Shaak Ti’s hand back to Rey’s. The honeycombed wood gleamed, untouched.
“Up,” Bultar said, her voice devoid of its earlier mockery. It was just a command.
I couldn’t. My body was a foreign, broken thing. Hands hooked under my arms—Aayla on one side, Ahsoka on the other—and hauled me upright. My legs were water. They held me there, my weight suspended between them, as I trembled violently.
Shaak Ti stepped in front of me. Her crimson eyes held mine. There was no pity there, only a deep, fathomless assessment. She reached out and took my face in both her hands. Her thumbs wiped the tears from my cheeks with a startling tenderness.
“The lesson,” she said quietly, for me alone, “is learned in the body long before it reaches the mind. Do you understand now, my foolish Padawan?”
I tried to speak. A raw, choked sound was all that emerged. I managed a jerky nod.
Her smile was small, a slight curve of her lips. It wasn’t warm. It was satisfied. “Good.”
She released my face and turned to the others. “The session is concluded. See him to the Halls of Healing. Tell Jedi doctor Rig Nema he requires a soaking and hands on healing. She'll understand." She glanced back at me, her montrals casting a long shadow. “And find him some trousers.”