Chapter 4: Phase 2 Training
The dawn briefing was a special kind of hell.
Bultar sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, her palms flat on the cool table. The Council of Reassignment droned on about soil yields and moisture vaporators for the new AgriCorps outpost on Ryloth. A Twi’lek Master was showing holographic schematics of irrigation ducts. It was, objectively, the most boring meeting in the history of the Order.
And Bultar couldn’t focus.
It started as a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. A localized tingling in the seat of her shorts, right where the podracer smile would be. She dismissed it. Room was chilly. Probably just a draft. She shifted her weight.
The warmth didn’t go away. It pulsed. A slow, gentle throb that synced, maddeningly, with her heartbeat. Thump-tingle. Thump-tingle.
She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. The motion seemed to amplify it. The sensation deepened, spreading from a single point into a low, buzzing hum across her entire backside. It wasn’t painful. It was… distracting. Deeply, intimately distracting. Like a persistent, internal whisper.
Master Poof was speaking now, his voice a warbling flute. Bultar’s mind kept sliding off the words, following that insistent vibration down into her body. A faint, traitorous flush crept up her neck. She clenched her jaw, focusing on the grain of the wood table. Jedi discipline. Control.
The remote in Barriss’s pocket, from her perch on a forgotten balcony high above the training halls, was set to a low, steady cycle. She watched through electrobinoculars, her expression serene. Rey fidgeted beside her, grinning.
“She’s doing the leg-cross thing,” Rey whispered.
“Noted. Increased respiratory rate, slight dilation of pupils.” Barriss’s thumb nudged the dial a fraction. “Introducing variable frequency.”
In her chair, Bultar froze. The steady thrum suddenly stuttered, then kicked into a faster, fluttering pattern. It felt like a swarm of tiny, electric butterflies had been released inside her clothing. A sharp, startled breath hitched in her throat. Her knuckles went white where she gripped the table’s edge.
The Twi’lek Master paused, his lekku twitching. “Is there a problem, Knight Swan?”
All eyes turned to her. Bultar forced her face into a mask of calm. “No, Master. No problem. Please, continue.” Her voice was tight.
She sat through the remaining twenty minutes in a state of exquisite torture. The buzzing would fade to a dull ache, lulling her into thinking it was over, then surge back with a new, rhythmic pattern that made her thighs tense. By the time the meeting adjourned, a fine sheen of sweat coated her lower back, and her mind was a jangled mess of agricultural data and creeping, unwanted arousal.
She marched out of the chamber, her boot heels clicking a furious tattoo on the stone. What in the nine Corellian hells is wrong with me? she thought, panic simmering beneath the irritation. Did I sit on a malfunctioning training remote? Eat something weird? The idea that her own underwear might be the source never occurred to her. It was too absurd.
Her mood was a black cloud as she strode toward the primary training salle. She had a class of Senior Padawans in fifteen minutes, a lesson on defensive footwork. Something straightforward. Physical. She could punch this weird, buzzing feeling out of her system.
Across the Temple, Barriss lowered the binoculars. “Target is en route. Agitation levels: high. Cognitive load: compromised.” She looked at Rey. “Activate phase two ambiance.”
Rey pulled out a comlink, whispered into it. “Mister Clean, you’re on. Dazzle them.”
In the training salle, the sanitation droid whirred to life. It extended a polished attachment and began buffing a section of the floor directly in front of the observation balcony to a mirror sheen. It wasn’t part of the trap. It was set dressing. A reason for Barriss and Rey to be loitering up there, seemingly innocuous.
Bultar burst through the salle doors, her aura crackling. The Padawans—eight of them, human and near-human—were already there, stretching. They felt her turbulent energy and snapped to respectful attention.
“At ease,” Bultar barked, shrugging out of her outer robe and tossing it over a rack. She was left in her standard training gear: form-fitting black tights, a sleeveless grey tunic, and her boots. And beneath it all, the smiling podracers. The buzzing had settled into a persistent, warm thrum, a background annoyance she was fiercely compartmentalizing. “Today is about foundation. Your stance is your fortress. If your feet are weak, your entire form crumbles. We begin with the basic lunge. Mir’sab, demonstrate.”
A lanky Padawan stepped forward, assumed the position, and executed a perfect, deep lunge. Bultar circled him, her eyes critical. “Good. Depth is acceptable. But you’re leaning forward. Your center is over your knee, not between your feet.” She nudged his back foot with her boot. “Anchor here. Feel the floor.”
She was in her element now. The familiar cadence of instruction pushed the weirdness to the edge of her mind. “Everyone, assume position. On my mark, lunge. Hold. We will feel the strain. We will breathe into it. This is not an attack. It is a declaration of stability.”
The Padawans spread out. Bultar took her own place at the head of the room, on the well-worn strip of mat she always used for demonstrations. It was central, visible from all angles. She planted her boots, feeling the familiar, slightly forgiving texture of the mat.
“Ready…”
On the balcony, Barriss’s thumb rested on the remote. The garment icon switch was now dialed to a medium-high, persistent pulse. The mat icon switch was armed.
“Set…”
Bultar took a deep breath, pushing the last of the buzzing sensation away. She focused on the geometry of the movement. Hip, knee, ankle. A straight line. Power from the earth.
“Lunge!”
She drove forward, her body a perfectly tuned engine. Her right foot planted ahead, her left leg extended back, knee hovering just above the floor. It was a textbook example. The Padawans, in unison, mirrored her.
For a second, all was correct.
Then two things happened simultaneously.
The micro-filaments in her shorts and bra, activated to their peak setting, discharged their full program. The warm thrum exploded into a shocking, all-encompassing wave of direct stimulation. It wasn’t a buzz anymore. It was a bright, white-hot line of pleasure so intense it blurred her vision. Her core muscles seized. A choked, involuntary gasp ripped from her throat.
And her boots, planted with such forceful precision, met the treated circle on the mat.
The instant the soles made full contact, the moisture-activated adhesive grabbed. It wasn’t a slap or a stick. It was a sudden, total suction, as if the floor had become hungry. Her forward foot held firm. Her back foot, meant to pivot, was locked in place.
The combined effect was catastrophic.
The seismic pleasure from the garment short-circuited her nervous system. The adhesive stole her balance. Her perfect lunge collapsed. Her arms flailed for a non-existent support. With a grunt of shock, she pitched forward. Her forearms slapped down onto the mat to catch her fall, landing palm-first inside the adhesive circle.
They stuck fast.
She was now bent over at the waist, arms and feet glued to the floor, back arched, her backside aimed at the ceiling. The vulnerable position drove the stimulation from the garments deeper, more focused. A ragged moan escaped her clenched teeth.
A stunned silence blanketed the room. The Padawans froze in their own lunges, utterly bewildered. Their instructor was suddenly, inexplicably, stuck to the floor in a profoundly undignified posture, making pained, strangled noises.
Bultar’s mind was a hurricane of humiliation and sensation. She tried to pull an arm free. The adhesive resisted with a nasty, peeling tension, then held. She tried to shift a foot. It didn’t budge. Every movement strained the fabric of her tights and shorts against her skin, rubbing against the furious, buzzing energy trapped inside them. She could feel her face burning, hotter than any lightsaber.
“Knight Swan?” Padawan Mir’sab asked, his voice hesitant. “Are you… is this part of the lesson?”
“It’s—ahn—a demonstration!” Bultar managed to grit out, her voice strained. “Of… of what happens… when your focus… fails!” She was improvising desperately, her body trembling from the effort of holding the position and weathering the relentless, internal assault. She could feel the stretch of her tights and her shirt rising over her shoulders and back.
On the balcony, Rey had her fist shoved in her mouth to stifle her laughter. Tears streamed down her face. Barriss watched with clinical satisfaction, her finger hovering over the second switch.
“She’s attempting to rationalize it,” Barriss murmured. “Admirable, if futile.”
Below, Bultar tried again to wrench an arm free, putting her shoulder into it. A low, tearing sound filled the quiet room. It wasn’t the adhesive letting go. It was the seam of her tights.
The strained fabric, stressed by her awkward, stuck position and her frantic movements, gave way. A long, catastrophic rip echoed from her inner thigh all the way up to the waistband at her hip. Cool air hit her skin. The torn flap of black material sagged downward, revealing the bright blue fabric of her podracer-patterned underwear beneath.
A few of the Padawans gasped. One of them, a young woman, made a choked coughing sound.
Bultar’s world shrank to the feel of the air on her exposed skin, the cartoonish grin of a podracer now partially visible to the room, and the devastating, unrelenting pulses from the very garment that was being put on display. Humiliation, hot and total, swamped her. Her dramatic indignation rose, but it had no outlet. She was pinned, literally and figuratively.
“Don’t just stand there!” she finally yelled, her composure shattering. “Get over here and help me peel my forearms up! And not a word about the… the…” She couldn’t even say it.
As the first two Padawans scrambled forward, kneeling cautiously beside her stuck hands, Barriss finally pressed the second switch.
A low, powerful vibration activated within the adhesive itself. It wasn’t a buzz. It was a deep, penetrating tremor that shot up through the soles of Bultar’s boots, through her stuck palms and forearms, and directly into her bones. It merged with the internal frenzy from her shorts, creating a feedback loop of sensation that arched her spine. A sharp, desperate cry was torn from her.
Her head dropped, her forehead pressing against the cool, vibrating mat. The game was up. The trap had sprung perfectly. All she could do now was endure it, while a room full of her students laughed at their vanquished, vibrating, and half-exposed teacher.
From the shadowed balcony, two figures peered down, their mission accomplished. The only sound up there was Rey’s muffled, helpless wheezing and the sound of Barriss overloading the remote.
The only sound up there was Rey’s muffled, helpless wheezing and the sound of Barriss overloading the remote.
Down on the floor, the world dissolved into pure sensation. The overload didn’t just increase the vibration; it transformed it. The careful, engineered pulses shredded into a continuous, white-noise scream of stimulation that burned through every nerve ending Bultar possessed. Her back arched violently, a raw, wrenching moan tearing itself from her throat, no longer stifled. Her fingers scrabbled against the sticky mat, her body trembling like a plucked wire.
The Padawans recoiled, their confusion morphing into wide-eyed shock. The sight of their stern instructor bent and stuck, her torn gear revealing ridiculous underwear, her body convulsing with unmistakable pleasure, short-circuited their Jedi training. A charged, thick silence descended, broken only by Bultar’s choked cries. Then, a subtle shift. A young man’s hand drifted unconsciously to the front of his trousers, pressing against the sudden, uncomfortable tightness there. Another followed, his face flushed. The two female Padawans exchanged a glance, their breaths coming quicker, one biting her lip.
Barriss, watching from above, saw the hungry, glazed looks crystallize on the students' faces. She saw hands adjusting clothes, subtle movements of hips. The clinical satisfaction in her eyes evaporated, replaced by cold alarm. This had crossed a line she hadn’t drawn. Her thumb jabbed the power switch down.
The sudden, deafening silence was almost worse than the noise.
The overwhelming vibration vanished, leaving Bultar gasping, her body thrumming with furious, unmet need. The abrupt cessation was a physical agony. “No!” she barked, her voice hoarse and desperate. She strained against the adhesive, turning her head as much as she could toward the observation balcony. “Rey! Barriss! I know it’s you two up there! Don’t you dare edge me like this, you little shits! It was a good prank, fine! Now finish the job!”
In the balcony shadows, Rey’s laughter died. She and Barriss stared at each other, frozen. “She knows,” Rey whispered, panic in her eyes.
“She’s bargaining,” Barriss hissed, clutching the dead remote.
“She’s begging,” Rey corrected, and something in her scavenger’s heart, familiar with desperate deals, responded. She snatched the remote from Barriss’s stiff fingers. “A deal’s a deal.” She flicked the power back on, cranking the dial to its absolute limit.
The shockwave of sensation slammed into Bultar, a tidal wave that wiped all thought clean. Her vision went white at the edges. A long, shuddering wail echoed in the salle, pure and unfiltered. For a moment, she was nothing but a conduit for rapture, every muscle locked, her awareness reduced to the epicenter of pleasure the engineered garments had become.
When her voice returned, it was a ragged, commanding slur. “Boys. Listen up.” She panted, her face still pressed to the mat. “You’re all… painfully obvious. Help a Knight out. Take them out. Stroke. Point them… at me.”
The four male Padawans glanced at each other, a mixture of disbelief and intense urgency on their faces. There was no order in the Jedi texts for this. But her tone held the familiar crack of authority, and their own bodies were screaming for release. With clumsy, hurried movements, they complied. The soft sounds of fabric and skin filled the quiet room.
“Good,” Bultar groaned, a wild, knowing grin spreading across her face despite her position. “On my count. Together. Three… two… one.”
A unified, guttural sound rose from the young men. The air, already thick with ozone and sweat, acquired a new, salty musk. Bultar, her entire being focused on the converging streams, felt the warm, sudden shower across her back, her exposed thigh, the back of her neck. The shocking, organic reality of it, the sheer audacity, tipped her over the edge she’d been dangling from.
Her climax was a silent, seismic convulsion that locked her throat and sawed her legs against the mat. The electrical systems in the micro-filaments and the adhesive, overloaded and now coated in conductive biological fluid, sparked and died with a sharp sizzle and a puff of acrid smoke.
The suction on her hands and boots released.
She collapsed onto the slick mat, breathing in ragged, deep gulps. She pushed herself up slowly, her limbs trembling. She looked a mess—clothes torn, skin glistening—but her eyes were clear and bright. She stood, shaky but regaining her footing, and surveyed the dazed, emptying Padawans.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, even warm. “For the assist. Now, all of you, shower room. Go on.” As they shuffled past, shell-shocked, she delivered a firm, familiar pat to each boy’s head, and a light, approving smack on their backside. “Good form.”
The heavy doors hissed shut behind the last Padawan, leaving the salle in a sticky, silent aftermath.
A side door slid open. Rey and Barriss crept in, their earlier triumph replaced by pale anxiety. “Bultar, look,” Rey started, wringing her hands. “That got way out of hand. We’re sorry. It was supposed to be funny, not… whatever that became.”
Barriss nodded stiffly, her analytical mind clearly cataloging the multiple breaches of protocol. “The emotional manipulation was excessive. The collateral exposure of the students was an uncalculated variable. We… miscalculated.”
Bultar looked at them, then down at her own stained, torn clothes. A slow, genuine giggle bubbled up from her chest. It grew into full, relieved laughter. “You absolute maniacs,” she wheezed, wiping her eyes. “The podracer shorts? The adhesive? That was diabolical. I deserved every second of that humiliation.” She grinned, a real, easy smile. “And honestly? The reward at the end made the whole screaming, stuck, pants-ripping nightmare totally worth it.” She hooked her arms around their shoulders, pulling them into her sticky, odorous embrace. “Now, someone owes me a new pair of tights. And you’re both cleaning this mat.”
Bultar’s laughter softened into a contented sigh as she pulled them both closer, the adrenaline of the prank and its explosive conclusion melting into a warm, sticky camaraderie. “Seriously, you maniacs,” she murmured into Rey’s hair, her other arm tightening around Barriss’s shoulders. “That was the most creatively unhinged thing I’ve ever been part of.”
The group hug tightened, a tangle of relief and shared mischief. Then Rey’s nose wrinkled. “Ugh, what is that smell?” she mumbled, her face pressed against Bultar’s shoulder. “It’s like… salty ozone and… oh, stars.”
Barriss pulled back slightly, looking down at her own tunic where it had pressed against Bultar’s back. A slick, pearlescent streak glistened on the grey fabric. She lifted her hand, which had been resting on Bultar’s hip, and stared at the drying residue on her fingers. Her analytical mind provided an immediate, clinical identification. “Ah.”
Bultar followed their gazes, looking at the splatter patterns across her own torn tights and the damp patches now transferred to her friends. A fresh, rolling laugh burst from her. “Oops. Collateral damage.”
“You’re covered in it!” Rey exclaimed, half-grossed-out, half-impressed. She poked a wet spot on Barriss’s arm. “And now we are too. We look like we lost a fight with a Gungan slug-thrower.”
“A testament to your students’… enthusiastic participation,” Barriss said dryly, wiping her hand on her leggings with a look of profound distaste. “The biological transfer is comprehensive.”
“We can’t walk through the Temple like this,” Rey said, stating the obvious. She glanced around the empty salle as if a solution might materialize. Her eyes landed on the observation balcony. “The droid. Mister Clean. He’s still here, right? Buffing?”
“The same droid you owe multiple inappropriate favors?” Barriss asked, arching a tattooed eyebrow.
“He’s discreet! And he’s got solvents!” Rey countered, already pulling out her comlink. She hit a sequence. “Clean? We’ve got a… a spill. In the primary training salle. A big, sticky one. Human… fluids. We need a deep clean. Stat.”
Within moments, the service door hissed open. The GX-8 droid whirred in, its yellow sensor sweeping the room, pausing on the three stained women and the glistening mat. It emitted a soft, inquisitive beep.
“We need you,” Bultar said, gesturing to their soiled clothes. “All of us. A full decontamination.”
The droid’s head swiveled. “Query: Scope of cleaning? Surfaces only, or organic surfaces as well?”
Rey let out a frustrated groan. “Us, you rust-bucket! We’re the organic surfaces! Just get this gunk off!”
“Acknowledged,” the droid intoned, its cheerful voice at odds with the situation. “This constitutes three (3) discrete sanitation events beyond standard protocols. New favor debt will be incurred. One per organic unit.”
“Fine, fine, whatever, just hose us down!” Bultar said, already pulling her torn, sticky tunic over her head.
It was a practical, unceremonious process. They stripped quickly, letting their fouled garments fall to the floor in a sodden pile. The cool air of the salle raised goosebumps on their skin. They stood there, bare and waiting, three Jedi in nothing but their boots.
Mister Clean extended a different nozzle, one typically used for rinsing repulsorlift exhaust grates. A high-pressure jet of lukewarm water shot out, hitting Bultar first in the center of her chest.
The force of it made her yelp and stumble back a step. The stream was relentless, a pounding spray that sluiced over her skin, beading on her breasts and stomach before cascading down her legs. It targeted Rey next, the water making her shriek as it slapped against her ribs and hips, her skin turning pink under the assault.
Barriss watched, arms crossed over her chest, until the droid turned on her. The jet hit her collarbone and she gasped, her composure cracking as the water plastered her short dark hair to her scalp and streamed down her back. The pressure was intense, making flesh jiggle and wobble with each pulsating burst, leaving them all breathless and dripping.
The water shut off with a sudden hiss. They stood panting, water pooling at their feet. Before they could react, the droid produced a single, large, grey cleaning rag from a compartment. It was damp and smelled faintly of antiseptic.