Chapter 3: Phase One: The Laundry Gambit
The humid air in the laundry room clung to Barriss’s skin like a second, damp tunic. She peered through a narrow gap between two towering, precarious stacks of folded linen, her breathing shallow. The rhythmic thump-whir of industrial dryers provided a steady, concealing bassline.
Bultar Swan sauntered into the neon-lit chaos, a woven basket balanced on one hip. She was dressed, if it could be called that, in a sleek black spandex bra and matching shorts so brief they barely qualified as clothing, evidently on her way to or from a private workout. The flickering lights traced the hard lines of her abdomen, the defined curve of her shoulders. She moved with the unconscious, economical grace of a predator, completely at ease in her own skin.
Admirable musculature, Barriss observed dispassionately, her analytical mind cataloging the physique even as her mischievous one plotted against it. Excellent foundation for explosive movement. And for dramatic overreaction.
Bultar dumped her basket of soiled tan and brown robes onto a sorting table with a dismissive sigh. “Another week, another layer of Temple dust,” she muttered to herself, turning to survey the wall of detergent dispensers. She gazed at her ass. "I gotta lay off the desserts, it's going straight to my fat ass and that's practically asking for a spanking."
Barriss smirked, then focused.
Now.
Barriss’s hand, concealed behind the sheets, pressed a single button on a small, stolen control pad. A deafening, pulsating shriek erupted from the ceiling—the fire alarm. Stark white strobes cut through the steam, turning the room into a jarring, silent-movie nightmare.
Orderly panic ensued. Padawans and service droids streamed toward the exits, their faces composed but their steps hurried. Bultar jerked around, her eyes wide. She looked down at her own scant attire, then at the distant exit, calculation and horror warring on her face. Stranded.
“Perfect,” she groaned, crossing her arms over her chest as the last of the crowd filtered out. She stood alone in the screaming, flashing room. “Just great. Please, Force, don’t let Master Yoda catch me in this. last thing I need is a whipped butt and three-hour lecture on decorum because he thinks I’m dressed like a Nar Shaddaa street performer.”
From behind her linen fortress, Barriss clamped her lips together, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
A soft shush of a door seal came from the opposite entrance. Rey slipped in, the alarm cutting off abruptly as she tapped the override panel. The sudden silence was thick, broken only by the dripping of a leaky pipe and the steady hum of the dormant machines. The strobes died, leaving the room in its former eerie, neon glow.
Rey grinned, spotting Barriss as she emerged. They met in the center of the room, slapping a quiet, precise high-five. “Phase one: isolation complete,” Rey said, her voice low.
“Her situational assessment was predictably slow,” Barriss noted, glancing at the abandoned basket. “Clothing-based vulnerability appears to be a consistent blind spot.”
They turned in unison toward the far corner, where a single, rust-streaked sanitation droid stood motionless. It was an older GX-8 model, its spherical body scuffed and one of its visual sensors flickering with a lazy yellow light. A faded sticker on its chest read, in messy Basic, ‘I ♥ Clean Floors.’
Rey approached it like a mechanic approaching a familiar, temperamental engine. “Hey, Mister Clean. We need a ten-minute window. No logs, no interruptions.”
The droid’s head rotated with a soft whir, its yellow sensor focusing on Rey. A synthesized voice, granular and oddly cheerful, emitted from its grille. “Authorization code, Master Rey?”
“How about the one from the ‘spilled glitter-glue in the ventilation intake’ incident?” Rey suggested, rubbing the back of her neck. “Or the ‘misdirected sewer flush during the diplomatic banquet’?”
The droid processed this. “Acknowledgement. Favors owed: two. Current request: non-interference during garment alteration. Query: Scope of alteration?”
“Just a little… seam reinforcement,” Barriss said smoothly, holding up a spool of hair-thin, silvery micro-filament. “Totally harmless. Improves wicking.”
The droid’s sensor shifted to Barriss, then back to Rey. “Conditional agreement. In exchange, Rey Skywalker will provide one (1) additional ‘good time.’ As per previous interactions.”
Barriss’s eyebrow arched so high it nearly met the line of her headwrap. She slowly turned her head to look at Rey.
Rey’s cheeks flushed. “It’s not what it sounds like! Last time, I re-wired his pleasure circuits so he gets a dopamine analogue from buffing marble. He just really likes shiny floors now.” She glared at the droid. “And you’re not supposed to just say that in front of people!”
“Apologies. The phrase ‘good time’ was in your logged request,” the droid intoned.
“Deal,” Rey hissed, eager to move on. “Now, go pretend to polish something far away.”
The droid remained motionless for a long beat, its sensor blinking. "Clarification: Previous statement is incomplete." Its cheerful voice took on a factual, damning tone. "Rey Skywalker's disorganization and messy demeanor have required twelve unsanctioned clean-up interventions this lunar cycle. In exchange for silence and service, she has performed various inappropriate favors. These include—"
"Okay, that's enough!" Rey squealed, lunging forward as if to cover its speaker grille with her hands. Her face was a mask of horrified protest. "You rusty bucket of bolts, we had a confidentiality agreement!"
Barriss’s grin was a slow, deep delight. She crossed her arms, the spool of filament dangling from her finger. "‘Various inappropriate favors’? It seems our resident scavenger has a more creative side than I anticipated." She tapped her chin. "And it seems you’re going to have to perform another one. Right now."
Rey’s blush burned scarlet from her neck to the roots of her hair. She shot a desperate, furious look at the implacable droid. "This is extortion."
"It’s maintenance of a balanced ecosystem," Barriss corrected smoothly. She plucked the basket of Bultar’s laundry from the table. "I’ll begin the modifications on Swan’s panties, pajamas, and bras. You treat our discreet friend here to his ‘good time.’ Whatever that entails."
Rey rolled her eyes hard enough to strain a muscle. "Fine. But I want to see the goods first. I need to know what we’re working with."
Together, they peered into the basket, pushing aside the coarse outer robes. Underneath lay a jumble of personal linens. A beat of stunned silence hung in the steamy air.
Then they burst into simultaneous, choked laughter.
Bultar Swan, the fierce duelist, the relentless competitor, wore underwear adorned with cartoonish, smiling podracers. Another pair featured tiny, grimacing mynocks with hearts for eyes. A third was simple white cotton, but with the words ‘I ♥ CORELLIA’ printed in bold, blocky letters across the seat.
"By the Force," Barriss breathed, tears of mirth glittering in her eyes. She held up the podracer pair between thumb and forefinger like a contaminated specimen. "The psychological profile this suggests is staggering."
"She fights like a demon but sleeps in these?" Rey wheezed, clutching her stomach. She grabbed the mynock pair. "These are the most embarrassed little creatures I’ve ever seen. It’s perfect."
Barriss, still giggling, slipped the ‘CORELLIA’ panties over her own leggings, wearing them like a belt. She struck Bultar’s trademark hands-on-hips, chin-up pose. "Behold my superior technique and my patriotic butt!" she declared in a deep, terrible imitation of Bultar’s voice.
Rey pulled the podracer briefs up to her chest, wearing them like a bizarre crop top. She puffed out her chest and scowled. "You call that a Force push? I’ve seen bigger gusts from a malfunctioning airlock!" she growled, doing a stiff, stomping march around a sorting table.
Their laughter echoed off the tiled walls, a chaotic, un-Jedi-like sound. They were so absorbed in their performance, in the sheer, juvenile absurdity of their discovery, that they missed the soft, almost inaudible whir of a lens focusing.
The sanitation droid, Mister Clean, had extended a small, recessed recorder from its chassis. A tiny red light winked silently, capturing the scene: the Mirialan Jedi modeling embarrassing underwear, the legendary Skywalker scion stomping around in a pair of briefs worn as a shirt.
Barriss’s laughter died first. Her sharp eyes caught the glint of the lens. She went very still.
"Rey," she said, her voice suddenly cool and clear.
Rey stopped her stomping, the podracer fabric slipping from her shoulders. "What?"
Barriss didn't answer with words. In one fluid motion, she closed the distance between them. Her hands settled on Rey’s shoulders, spun her around, and bent her forward over the cool metal surface of the sorting table. Rey gasped, her palms slapping flat against the metal.
"Hey! What are you—"
Barriss leaned close, her breath tickling Rey’s ear. Her voice was a low, theatrical purr, meant to carry. "Just giving our audience a better show," she said, loud enough for the droid to pick up. Then, with a deliberate, teasing slowness, she hooked her fingers over the waistband of Rey’s own practical leggings and the plain cotton underwear beneath.
She didn’t pull them down. Instead, she traced a single, firm fingertip along the revealed band of skin just above the fabric, following the curve of Rey’s hip. The touch was a mimicry of intimacy, a performance of invasion for the watching lens.
Rey squeaked, her whole body tensing, a fresh wave of crimson flooding her cheeks. She was pinned, not by force, but by the sheer, startling audacity of the act.
"Enjoying the view?" Barriss called over her shoulder to the droid, her tone dripping with false sweetness, her finger still tracing a slow, maddening line.
Barriss smirked, her fingertip halting its teasing trace. She gave Rey’s right buttock a firm, playful jiggle through the fabric, the motion both possessive and mocking. "The performance is for him, remember?" she whispered, her voice dropping back to a private murmur meant only for Rey. "You owe Mister Clean a good time. A deal's a deal, scavenger."
Rey, her face still pressed to the cool table, groaned in exasperation. "It's not submissive, it's transactional!" she protested, her voice muffled. "He's a droid with a buffing fetish and a loose definition of service! I realigned his—ah!"
Her explanation was cut short as one of Mister Clean's flexible utility arms, usually reserved for holding mop heads, extended with a soft hydraulic hiss. Its padded gripper gently, but with unyielding mechanical precision, closed around the curve of Rey's ear. It didn't hurt, but the control was absolute.
"Hey! Easy with the—" Rey's protest died as the droid pulled, guiding her upright and then steering her with insistent tugs toward a cleared space between the humming dryers. She went, a flush of something hotter than embarrassment coloring her skin—a mix of indignation and a strange, buzzing acquiescence. The droid’s other arm snaked around her waist, its grip firm and cool through her tunic.
Barriss watched, her earlier mirth crystallizing into a sharper, more focused interest. She casually scooped up Bultar’s podracer-patterned panties and a simple sports bra from the basket, along with her spool of micro-filament and a tiny sonic seam-ripper. She settled onto a low storage crate, her back against a warm dryer, as if settling in for a show.
The droid positioned Rey facing it, then with efficient, programmed motions, began to undress her. Her tunic was pushed up, her leggings and underwear peeled down to her knees. The cool, damp air of the laundry room kissed her exposed skin.
"Just get it over with," Rey muttered, shutting her eyes tightly.
Mister Clean’s primary appendage, a smooth, tapered nozzle usually connected to a polishing reservoir, extended with a soft click. It was slick with a clear, non-abrasive lubricant. Without ceremony, it pressed against Rey, finding her entrance. There was a moment of resistance, then a slow, steady, mechanical invasion.
Rey gasped, her hands flying back to brace against the droid’s spherical body. The sensation was utterly foreign—a relentless, rhythmic pressure that was neither warm nor gentle, just persistent. Clank. Hiss. Clank. The sound of its internal pumps synced with its movements.
Barriss’s lips parted slightly. She watched, one hand deftly working the sonic tool to open a tiny seam in the gusset of Bultar’s panties. Her other hand, as if moving of its own accord, slipped inside the waistband of her own leggings. Her fingers found their own target, mirroring the slow, circling rhythm she observed.
"You could try to relax," Barriss suggested, her voice a little breathless. She began weaving the hair-thin filament into the fabric, her work meticulous. "Fighting the programming only increases friction. Literally."
"Shut up, Barriss," Rey panted, her head rolling back. The initial shock was melting into something else, a building tension coerced by the machine’s perfect, untiring pace. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the droid’s casing.
"Merely an observation." Barriss’s eyes were dark, fixed on the scene. Her own fingers moved faster. "Perhaps a change of angle? His third articulating arm has a greater range of motion at the joint."
The droid’s sensor blinked yellow, processing. It retracted slightly, and one of its smaller, finer arms—designed for scrubbing grout—snaked around. It applied firm pressure to the small of Rey’s back, arching her differently. The primary nozzle’s angle shifted, and Rey cried out, a sharp, truncated sound that was absolutely not pain.
"See?" Barriss murmured, a smile touching her lips. Her own hips shifted minutely on the crate. "Optimization."
"Will you stop—ah!—directing it?!" Rey managed to yell, throwing a glare over her shoulder.
The complaint was met with a swift, sharp smack from one of the droid’s flat, paddle-like attachments. It connected with Rey’s bare backside with a crisp, metallic sound. The sting was bright and shocking, followed instantly by a deeper, more intense pulse of pleasure as the droid adjusted its depth and speed precisely, as if following Barriss’s unspoken script.
Rey’s outrage dissolved into a choked moan. Her body tensed, then unraveled all at once. A shuddering wave crashed over her, wringing a raw, unfiltered sound from her throat as her legs trembled and she sagged against the machine. The rhythmic clank-hiss-moan ceased, replaced by the hum of the dryers and her own ragged breathing.
Barriss watched, her own hand stilling inside her clothes. A flicker of something hot and unsatisfied crossed her composed features—a pinch of envy at the sheer, forced abandon of it. She let out a slow, controlled breath and returned her full attention to the underwear in her lap, her fingers deftly sealing the seam she’d modified. The tiny filament was now invisibly woven into the lining, a dormant circuit waiting for a signal.
Rey, spent and glistening with a light sheen of sweat, slid bonelessly to her knees on the concrete floor. She looked up at Mister Clean, her expression dazed and oddly grateful. She stuck her tongue out playfully, then pulled her tunic off over her head, baring her breasts to the droid’s unblinking sensor.
"Go on, then," she said, her voice hoarse. "You earned it."
A different nozzle, narrower and housed near its base, extended. With a pneumatic puff, it released a stream of warm, viscous black hydraulic oil. It splattered across her chest and neck in thick, glistening ropes. Rey laughed, a low, dirty sound, and looked down at the mess. Then, with deliberate slowness, she leaned forward and ran her tongue over her own collarbone, collecting the oil. She made a face at the taste, but swallowed, cleaning herself with a bizarre, practiced reverence.
Barriss stood, shaking out the now-altered garments. "The modifications are complete," she announced, her voice back to its usual, collected tone, though her cheeks were faintly flushed. "Full sensory induction capability. Remote activation is ready."
The droid retracted its various appendages with soft whirs. It took the podracer panties and sports bra from Barriss with a careful gripper. It then trundled to the sorting table and, with methodical care, placed them back into the basket of Bultar’s laundry, burying them beneath the robes exactly as they had been.
Rey pulled her clothes back on, wincing slightly as the fabric touched her sensitized skin. She got to her feet, a new, conspiratorial energy humming between them, thicker than the steam in the air.
"Phase one is a success," Barriss said, pocketing the remote activator. Her gaze was already looking past the laundry room, toward the coming day. "The trap is set."
Rey wiped the last of the oil from her chin with the back of her hand, a fierce, satisfied grin spreading across her face. "Let's see how she likes a little private distraction during morning meditation."
"Let's see how she likes a little private distraction during morning meditation," Rey said, her grin sharpening.
They slipped from the laundry room’s humid dark into the Temple’s cooler, silent corridors. The encounter with the droid hummed between them, a shared secret that charged the air. Barriss led the way, her steps silent on the polished stone, the remote activator a hard, promising rectangle in her pocket.
The training room at this hour was a cavern of shadows and reflected moonlight. The obsidian mirrors held the ghost of their earlier struggle, the scuff marks on the mats like forgotten sentences. They didn’t speak. They moved with a shared purpose, the plan unfolding in synchronized steps.
Rey went to a maintenance closet, her scavenger’s knowledge of Temple infrastructure as reliable as any map. She returned with a caddy of cleaning supplies and a small, unlabeled canister. “Industrial adhesive,” she whispered, holding it up. “For patching mat seams. We just… reapply it. Strategically.”
Barriss nodded, her analytical mind already calculating vectors. “The primary engagement zone. Where she always begins her demonstrations for the younglings—that overconfident, sweeping opening lunge.” She pointed to a specific, well-worn section of mat near the center of the room. “Apply it there. A circle, roughly the diameter of her stance.”
Rey knelt, her face set in concentration. She unscrewed the canister, and a sharp, chemical smell cut through the air. Using a narrow applicator brush, she began painting a clear, glistening circle onto the mat’s textured surface. It was invisible against the dark blue material unless you knew to look for the slight wet sheen.
“It needs a catalyst to activate,” Rey murmured, setting the canister aside. She pulled a small spray bottle from her belt. “Water. Sweat, specifically. It stays inert until moisture hits it. Then it gets… grabby.”
“So she’ll be fine during initial footwork,” Barriss deduced, watching. “But the moment she commits to that lunge, plants her feet with force and generates heat and perspiration…”
“She’ll be anchored,” Rey finished, a dark satisfaction in her tone. She gave the adhesive a final, critical look. “It won’t hold her forever. Maybe thirty seconds. But it won’t let go cleanly, either. She’ll have to peel herself up. Slowly.”
Barriss imagined it: Bultar, bent over from a sudden blast of pleasure, suddenly finding her hands and feet glued to the floor, with her ass thrust provocatively into the air. The giggling younglings. Her frantic movements trying to control the pleasure in her pussy causing the slow slide of her tights down her legs, exposing her immature panties. The realisation of her predicament. The horror at what she chose to wear that day. The glorious, undignified pleading for help. She smiled. “Phase two is physical comedy. Broad, observable humiliation. Phase one,” she patted her pocket, “is psychological warfare. A private siege.”
“The schedule,” Rey said, standing and wiping her hands on her thighs. “She has Senior Padawan review in the Hall of Knighthood at dawn. That’s quiet, solemn. Then she’s got that briefing with the Council of Reassignment about the new AgriCorps volunteers. All serious faces and important nodding.”
“Perfect,” Barriss said. “We activate the garment’s program remotely during the briefing. A low, intermittent pulse. Just enough to make focus impossible, to make her shift in her seat, to bring a flush to her skin she can’t explain.” Her eyes met Rey’s in the dark mirror. “She’ll be irritated, distracted, her nerves already frayed when she comes here to teach.”
“And then,” Rey whispered, her gaze drifting to the treated mat, “she steps into the trap already buzzing. Her concentration shattered. She won’t be thinking about her footing. She’ll be thinking about the weird, warm tingling in her shorts.”
Barriss walked to the observation balcony overlooking the training floor. She pulled the small remote from her pocket. It was a simple device, modified from a trainer droid controller. Two toggle switches. One was labeled with a simple garment icon. The other with a mat symbol.
“First switch,” Barriss said, her thumb hovering over it. “Sensory induction. We can dial the intensity from a mild warmth to… considerable stimulation.” She glanced at Rey. “We build it slowly through the briefing. Let it simmer. By the time she’s marching in here, frustrated and flustered, we turn it up. Just a notch.”
Rey joined her at the railing, looking down at the invisible circle on the mat. “And the second switch?”
“That’s for the mat,” Barriss said. “A simple on/off for a piezoelectric charge embedded in the adhesive. Once she’s bent over and stuck, we flip it. It won’t shock her. It will… vibrate the entire patch. Transferring energy directly through the soles of her boots, up her legs.” She paused, letting the implication hang. “Combined with the overload from her own clothing, the effect should be… overwhelming.”
Rey let out a low whistle. “She’ll be moaning into the floor. She'll be wiggling so much her tights fall down!”
“That is the operational objective,” Barriss confirmed, her voice dry but her eyes alight. “A complete systemic overload. Publicly stuck, privately unraveling.” She looked at the remote, then out at the waiting room. “We watch from here. We control the storm.”
They stood in silence for a long moment, the plan laid out between them like a circuit diagram. The air felt charged, anticipatory. The clean, quiet room was now a stage, rigged with invisible strings.
“Tomorrow,” Rey said, her voice barely a breath.
“Tomorrow,” Barriss echoed, her thumb finally clicking the first switch to the ‘off’ position, sealing the device’s potential.
They left the training room as they found it, shadows among shadows. The trap was set. The only thing left was the prey.