Chapter 2: A Royal Dinner
The ice cream had become a soft, cold slurry, a miserable damp weight balanced precariously on the blazing landscape of her backside. Leia counted the seconds in the pulse of her own throat, each beat a tiny hammer against the inside of her skull. Nineteen minutes. She was at nineteen minutes. Just sixty more seconds of this absurd, degrading torment.
Her thighs trembled violently. A major muscle in her right leg, strained from the odd, stiff posture, gave a sudden, rebellious twitch.
It was a small thing. A microscopic failure of control.
The tub wobbled. Her hands, slick with nervous sweat, slipped from their position on her head as she instinctually tried to steady herself. The plastic container teetered on the curve of her cheek for one horrifying, suspended moment.
Then it fell.
It hit the polished obsidian floor with a wet, hollow clatter. A wave of half-melted vanilla slopped across the dark stone, splattering her ankles and the wall. The empty tub rolled in a lazy, mocking circle before coming to a rest against her bare foot.
The conversation behind her stopped.
Leia stared at the mess, her heart a frozen rock in her chest. The silence was absolute, more terrifying than any sound.
“Nineteen minutes,” Padmé said, her voice quiet as a medical drape settling over a corpse.
Leia couldn’t turn. She couldn’t move.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, achingly, Leia turned from the corner. She faced the room, naked, streaked with melted cream, her skin a spectacular map of crimson and pink. Padmé was standing, her hands clasped serenely in front of her. Mon Mothma’s hologram observed, a faint, disappointed curve to her mouth.
“I… my leg cramped,” Leia whispered.
“I don’t recall asking for an excuse,” Padmé said. She sighed, a sound of profound, theatrical regret. “I gave you one task. One simple, static task. And you could not complete it.” She walked forward, her steps measured on the stone. She stopped just before the puddle of ice cream, her royal slippers avoiding the mess. “Tomorrow’s briefing with the Kuat delegation begins at ten hundred hours. You will report to the throne room at nine sharp. You will be wearing your ceremonial robe, and some more appropriate panties. If fact, Mon, how about you bring over some of the childish ones you make Charlie wear when he's bad. You will bend over the main negotiation table. And you will receive the second, full round of discipline I promised you. In full view of the delegation as they arrive. I may even let them help."
The blood drained from Leia’s face, leaving her cold and nauseous. “Mother—“
“The discussion is closed.” Padmé’s tone brooked no argument. “Now, you may clean yourself up. The bathroom. Use the detachable showerhead. Charlie, assist her. Ensure she is… thoroughly rinsed.”
She turned back to Mon’s hologram as if dismissing a servant. “You see the challenge, Mon.”
“I do. A lesson in enduring discomfort is clearly needed. We will incorporate it into her training. It will be my pleasure to supply an arsenal of adequate underwear, Charlie is always thoroughly embarrassed when he wears a pair. Good evening, Padmé. Leia, I’ll expect you in my senatorial office tomorrow after your… appointment. Do not be late.”
The hologram flickered out.
She let Charlie lead her out of the main chamber and into the adjoining royal bathing suite. It was a cavern of silver marble and steam, a sunken bath large enough for ten dominating the center. He guided her past it to the larger shower alcove, turning on the water. Steam began to billow, fogging the mirrors.
Leia stood under the spray, flinching as the hot water needled her sensitized skin. The warmth was a false comfort. Charlie let her stand there for a moment, her head bowed, water sluicing the sticky residue from her legs. Then he reached for the long, metallic handheld showerhead.
“Gotta follow orders, Princess,” he said, and his voice was soft, but there was a spark in it. A familiar, wicked glint.
He switched the setting. The whisper of the rain-shower turned into the angry hiss of a jet stream. He adjusted the temperature dial all the way to the left.
“Brace,” he said.
She spread her hands against the cool marble wall, her head hanging. She knew what was coming.
The first blast of icy water hit the crest of her right buttock and she gasped, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the steam. It was a shocking, brutal cold, a different kind of pain altogether—needle-sharp and deep, seizing the muscles underneath the fiery surface.
“Fuck! Charlie, stop!”
“Uh-uh. Your mom said thorough.” He moved the stream in a slow, cruel line across the width of her backside, painting her with cold fire. She gasped and clenched, her whole body shuddering. The contrast was exquisite torture: the bone-deep chill bit into the throbbing heat, creating a sensory chaos that left her whimpering.
“Think you can handle a whole delegation watching this tomorrow?” he asked, focusing the stream on the very spot where the hairbrush had landed most frequently. The water was a relentless, punishing lance.
“Shut up,” she moaned, her knuckles white against the wall.
“Or what?” He moved the stream lower, tracing the crease where her thigh met her bottom, making her jump. “You’ll have me punished? Pretty sure I’m the one with the weapon right now.”
He was hard. She could sense it, even through her distress. The dynamic had shifted, the power sliding from her mother’s chamber into this steam-clouded space, and it was a game they both knew. He turned the water back to warm, the sudden heat a sweet relief that made her knees go weak. He rinsed her gently, washing away the last of the stickiness.
Then he turned the water off.
The silence was thick, broken only by the drip of water and their breathing. He hung the showerhead back on its cradle. His hands, warm and familiar, smoothed over her hips, then up to her waist. He pulled her back against him, and she felt the firm, insistent length of his erection press against the small of her back through his trousers.
“You okay?” he whispered into her wet hair.
“No,” she said, her voice thick. “I’m humiliated and furious and my ass feels like it’s been through a meteor shower.”
“You liked it,” she accused, her voice suspicious.
He rubs her buttocks gently and she smiles at his contact "Yeah I did."
Leia grins. "I'm glad I put on a show for you."
The admission hung in the steam, thick and honest. She turned in his arms, the marble cool against her back, and saw his face flushed with something more than heat. Water beaded on his lashes. Her hand slid down his chest, over the damp fabric of his tunic, and palmed the rigid bulge there. He sucked in a breath.
"Show me how much you liked it," she said, her voice dropping to a low, commanding register he knew well.
It was a flip of the switch. Her humiliation and fury coiled into a different, hotter energy. She pushed him back, not gently, until his shoulders met the opposite shower wall. Her fingers made quick work of his belt buckle, the clatter of it loud in the tiled space. She yanked his trousers and shorts down in one rough pull, freeing his cock, which sprang up hard and already leaking against his stomach.
"No teasing," he growled, but she was already dropping to her knees on the wet floor.
She took him into her mouth without ceremony, swallowing him deep until the head nudged the back of her throat. He groaned, one hand fisting in her wet hair. She pulled back, her lips stretched tight, and used her tongue to lick a firm, slow stripe from his balls all the way up the throbbing vein on the underside. "You watched her spank me," she accused, her breath hot on his wet skin before taking him deep again.
"Yeah," he gasped, his hips jerking. "Fuck, Leia, I watched every second. I counted the welts."
This enflamed her. She sucked him harder, using her hand to twist at the base, her other hand creeping back to rub her own sore flesh. The twin sensations—the ache of her punishment and the power of making him unravel—was a filthy, perfect feedback loop. He was soon thrusting shallowly into the wet heat of her mouth, his control fraying.
"Stop," he gasped, pulling her up by her hair.
She came up, mouth swollen, and he spun her around, bending her over the same marble ledge where she’d braced for the water. Her punished backside was on full display, gloriously red and warm to the touch. He didn't enter her yet. He just rubbed the head of his cock through her slick folds, gathering wetness, smearing it against her clit until she whined and pushed back against him.
"Please," she ground out.
He slid into her with one hard, deep push, filling her completely. She cried out, the stretch a sweet burn. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each thrust jolting her forward, making the tender skin of her rear smack against his hips. The sound was wet, flesh against flesh, echoing off the marble. He leaned over her, his mouth at her ear.
"You’re gonna take it tomorrow, too,” he panted, driving into her. “And I’m gonna be there, watching you bend over that table. Thinking about how goddamn tight you are right now.”
She came then, clenching around him with a sharp, shattered cry that bounced off the walls. He followed, his own orgasm wrenched from him with a guttural shout, pumping into her deeply as she quivered around him. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing ragged, the water from the earlier spray now cold on their ankles.
Later, dressed in soft casual clothes that did little to cushion her tender skin, Leia retreated to her quarters to nurse her pride and her bruises. Charlie found Padmé in the sun-drenched royal kitchen, pruning herbs in a beam of late afternoon light.
"You've got a hell of a right hook, Your Majesty," Charlie said, leaning against the countertop.
Padmé didn't look up. "It's a matter of focus, not strength. And it's 'Padmé' in private, Charlie. You know that."
He snatched a gleeb berry from a bowl and popped it in his mouth. "If you were my mother, I’d be very obedient indeed."
That made her look up, a slow smile spreading. "Is that so?"
"Terrified into perfect behavior," he said, smiling back.
"The way I love you, Charlie," she said, wiping her hands on a cloth, "you might as well be my son."
The words, so simply stated, struck him with an unexpected force. A blush warmed his cheeks. He stepped forward and, on an impulse, wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. She smelled like citrus and parchment. "You’ve always been like a mom to me," he muttered into her shoulder. "More than my aunt, sometimes."
The embrace was warm, lasting a few seconds longer than was merely polite. When they parted, her hand slid down and gave his backside a playful, proprietary squeeze through his trousers. "Then you better listen to Mommy from now on."
"Yes, Ma'am," he said, the sass automatic but the undertone genuine.
"Good. Since you're so chatty, you can make dinner. The staff has the night off." Her eyes glittered with sudden mischief. "Butt naked. You may wear my apron."
He laughed, a bark of surprise. "You're kidding."
"Am I?" She was already untying her own practical apron. She walked to a decorative hook by the pantry and pulled down a different one. It was tiny, a absurd swath of green fabric meant for decoration, not utility. She held it up. Written across the front in cheerful white script were the words: "SPANK THE CHEF!"
Charlie stared, then shook his head, still grinning. "You are a deeply strange and wonderful woman."
"Strip."
He did, his clothes puddling on the polished kitchen floor until he stood bare in the fading light. Padmé appraised him openly as she stepped close, her fingers brushing his hip as she looped the thin strings around his waist. The apron covered almost nothing; the side ties left his flanks exposed, and the hem barely reached the top of his thighs. The words sat squarely over his pelvis.
He looked down. "So, the apron. Is this a statement, or an invitation?"
"Both," Padmé said, stepping back to admire her work. "I bought it for my last husband's birthday. He was a terrible cook but very enthusiastic about the… consequence." Her tone was wistful, then sharpened. "Now, the Yobana shrimp needs deveining. Get to work. Mommy's watching."
He cooked. He moved around the kitchen, his bare feet quiet on the stone, his lean body on full display. Padmé sipped wine from a crystal glass, her gaze following him.
"You have a very cute bottom, Charlie. Did you know that? All that sass, housed in such a pert little package."
"You're blushing," she noted with delight as he focused intently on slicing vegetables. "It's charming. This instant obedience is charming, too. If I were twenty years younger, I'd have quite the crush on you."
"I'm… flattered?" he said, his voice slightly strangled.
"Don't be. Just keep stirring that sauce. No, you may not adjust the temperature. I like it slow."
The front chime sounded just as he was plating the seared shrimp in a garlic cream sauce. Padmé went to answer, returning a moment later with Mon Mothma. Mon’s serene expression didn't flicker at the sight of Charlie, nearly nude and flushed, arranging herbs on a platter. She simply handed her cloak to Padmé and took her seat at the table.
"Oh, good. The help is already serving." Leia entered, moving stiffly, and stopped short.
Leia was guided not to a normal chair, but to a high, padded stool Padmé had brought in. Its seat was absurdly concave. Without a word, Padmé produced a fresh, full tub of vanilla ice cream, pried the lid off, and nestled it into the seat. She pointed. Leia’s face hardened, but she obeyed, hiking up her dress and lowering herself carefully into the icy container with a sharp hiss.
The three women sat. Charlie served, feeling the air of the dining room on his exposed skin, acutely aware of the ridiculous words on his apron as he leaned between them to place down plates. Mon’s eyes traced the script.
"‘Spank the Chef,’" Mon read aloud, her voice dry. "Is that a suggestion, Padmé, or a review of prior service?"
"Oh, a suggestion, always," Padmé said, accepting a plate. "Though he does look rather serviceable, doesn't he? So eager to please."
"Most boys are," Mon replied, taking a delicate bite of shrimp. "When properly motivated. He sets a lovely table, I'll give him that. Much better than the last time he served me half-naked. Do you remember, Charlie? You’d glued my senate datapads together."
Charlie’s ears turned crimson. "Yes, Aunty Mon."
Leia shifted uncomfortably in her icy seat, a spoonful of vegetables halfway to her mouth. "Leave him alone. He’s cooking dinner, isn't that enough?"
"We’re just admiring the help, dear," Padmé said sweetly. "Eat your greens. You need your strength for tomorrow."
The conversation pivoted, as it always did, back to Leia. They discussed her schedule, her potential, her "attitude problem" as if she weren't sitting right there with her ass freezing in a dessert. Charlie continued to serve, refill wine, and absorb their casually degrading commentary, which was flecked with genuine affection. It was a strange, tense, somehow domestic tableau.