Chapter 3: A Dinner to Remember
“Charlie, darling, stop hovering like a malfunctioning service droid. Sit. You’ve cooked, now you may join us.” She gestured to the empty seat beside Leia’s icy perch.
Charlie hesitated, the thin apron feeling more like a neon sign than clothing. “In… this?”
“Unless you’d prefer to eat off the floor,” Mon stated, not looking up from her plate. “Sit.”
He sat, the cold stone of the chair searing against his bare thighs. He felt hyper-exposed, the ridiculous slogan facing the table. Leia, beside him, shifted again in her tub with a faint slosh and a clenched jaw.
“Now,” Padmé said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Mon asked about the discipline. Leia’s little ice cream failure was merely the finale. The real transgression was this morning, in the strategy briefing with the Corellian trade delegates.”
Mon nodded, sipping her wine. “I heard rumors. Something about a rhetorical thermal detonator?”
“She called their proposed tariff structure ‘a Hutt’s bargain, conceived by a blind gonk droid and presented by a man with the fiscal acumen of a concussed Ewok.’ Direct quote.”
Mon’s eyebrows lifted infinitesimally. “Diplomatically suboptimal.”
“It was accurate,” Leia muttered, poking at her shrimp.
“It was a declaration of war over docking fees,” Padmé corrected, her voice sharpening. “The insult was bad enough. The fact that she delivered it while standing on her chair, using a laser pointer to illustrate the ‘gaping holes in their logic’ on the main viewscreen, was what earned her the corner time. And the ice cream. The public display tomorrow is for the sheer theatrical defiance of it all.”
Charlie listened, the story making his skin prickle with a sympathetic heat. He’d heard Leia’s version earlier—a triumphant tale of shooting down idiots. This was the other side: the carnage.
“My own mother,” Padmé continued, her tone shifting to something nostalgic and edged, “believed in memorable corrections. On Naboo, we used chilled river stones. You’d hold one in each hand, arms outstretched, while she… addressed the issue. The cold focused the mind wonderfully on the warmth being applied elsewhere. The ice cream was an adaptation. More humiliating, I find. The mess, the childishness of it.”
“It’s barbaric,” Leia commented.
“It’s effective,” Padmé and Mon said in unison. They shared a look of understanding.
Charlie shifts, embarrassed.
“Enjoying the dress code, servant?” she whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“Loving it, princess,” he teased back, “Better view than I’ll have tomorrow when you’re bent over that table.”
Her smirk vanished.
“Leia,” Mon’s voice cut through their hissed exchange. “We’ve discussed the what and the why. Now, I want you to articulate the experience. How did you feel before the punishment? During? In the timeout after with the ice cream?
Leia stared at her plate, the bright pink blush on her cheeks battling the pale upset of her complexion. She swallowed, her throat tight. Slowly, beneath the table, she felt Charlie’s warm fingertips brush the outside of her thigh, a brief, grounding stroke.
“Before… I was haughty,” she began, her voice small. “I thought I was right, and that being right was all that mattered. I deserved it.” She lifted her eyes to Mon’s. “When the hairbrush hit, it was… shocking. Each one was like a little explosion, heat spreading out under my skin until my whole backside was just one raw, throbbing nerve. The worst part was knowing Charlie was watching my face crumple, hearing me yelp.”
Charlie’s fingers curled gently around her leg.
“The ice cream was humiliation,” she whispered. “Pure, childish humiliation. Feeling it melt, knowing I was making a mess of myself, knowing I couldn’t hold it. And tomorrow…” Her breath hitched. “I’m terrified. The thought of them all watching, discussing trade policies while I’m bent over… I want to vomit.”
She looked at her mother, then at Charlie, her eyes glistening. “But I… thank you. Both of you. For not letting me be that insufferable person. Even if this is the worst way to learn.”
Mon’s stern expression softened into a look of profound approval. “Good. Honest self-assessment is the first, most painful step.” She then leaned forward conspiratorially, turning the focus. “To show you’re not alone in your embarrassment, let me tell you about the time this one—” she gestured with her chin at Charlie, “—earned a trip to the public gardens.”
Charlie groaned, dropping his head. “Aunty Mon, no.”
“Oh, yes. He’d ‘accidentally’ forwarded a rather risqué political cartoon depicting several senators to the entire junior administrative corps. Chaos.” Mon’s eyes sparkled. “So I took him to the busy park at noon, pulled down his trousers and shorts right there on a bench, and tanned his backside until it matched the red climbing roses.”
Leia’s horrified fascination pushed her own shame aside.
“That’s not all,” Mon continued, enjoying Charlie’s squirm. “Afterwards, I marched him over to the playground. I stood him on the bottom ledge of the slide, his bright red bottom on full display for all the parents and children. I told them he’d been a very naughty boy and needed to learn a lesson. I let them ask questions.”
“They g-groped me,” Charlie stammered, his face aflame. “A mom patted me and said ‘toasty!’ Some kid poked me!”
To demonstrate, Mon stood up, walked behind Charlie’s chair, and placed her hands firmly on his bare hips. She pulled him upright. Her thumbs stroked the sensitive, still-perfect skin of his backside, tracing remembered spots. “Right here,” she said cheerfully to Leia, “a grandmother squeezed and said he needed more vegetables for better resilience.”
Leia barked a laugh, sharp and surprised, her hand flying to her mouth.
“It was a civic lesson for everyone,” Mon concluded, sitting back down as Charlie collapsed into his chair, utterly mortified.
Padmé watched, a strange, wistful smile on her face. “It reminds me of a time on Naboo, during my first term as queen. I was perhaps more arrogant than our Leia. I publicly contradicted, and mocked, my head of security in a senate annex meeting.”
She sipped her wine, the memory vivid. “My mother, the former queen, heard of it. She summoned me to the central fountain square at the height of the midday bustle. She had me hike my formal robes up to my waist, bend over the rim of the fountain, and she used her ceremonial scepter. It was cold, solid gemstone. Each impact echoed off the water and the surrounding plaza. Tourists took holos. My security detail, the very man I’d insulted, was ordered to watch and count the strokes. I could feel the cool spray from the fountain on my face mingling with my hot tears, and the searing, deep ache of that scepter branding my soul as much as my skin. I didn’t sit for a week, and every diplomat in Theed had seen why.”
The table was silent, captivated.
Mon nodded in deep understanding. “Sometimes the humility is the point. Just last week, I’d parked my speeder illegally for a critical meeting. A handsome parking officer, strict type, was writing the ticket. On a whim, I offered an alternative. I asked if he’d consider administering a corporal penalty instead of the fine.” She smiled, a genuine, delighted grin. “He was shocked, then intrigued. He took me into the alley beside the municipal building. I leaned against the damp brick, lifted my senatorial skirts, and he used his issued citation datapad. It was surprisingly sturdy. He spanked me thoroughly, his strong hand joining in, while civilians walked past the alley mouth. It was humbling. And deeply satisfying.”
Then, with a shockingly casual air, Mon stood, turned, and elegantly lowered the back of her modest gown and trousers just enough to reveal the full, pale curve of her buttocks to the three of them. A faint, pink latticework of lines, the clear imprint of a rectangular object and broad fingers, still marked her skin. “See? A happy souvenir.”
Leia’s eyes were wide. Charlie stared, his mouth slightly open. Padmé chuckled, raising her glass in a silent toast.
The ice had not just melted in Leia’s tub; it had evaporated entirely, the cold discomfort replaced by a warmth of shared, secret understanding. The dynamic in the room had shifted, the air now charged with a bizarre, intimate camaraderie. They had all, in their turn, been brought low. They had all borne the heat, the sting, the exquisite humiliation. It was a bond stranger and stronger than any treaty.
“You liked her story,” Leia accused, poking Charlie “You got hard hearing about your own little park exhibition, didn’t you?”
"Shut up,” he said.
“You liked knowing strangers touched you,” she teased “You liked everybody seeing what a naughty boy you were.”
Charlie’s blush burned down his neck and across his chest, a violent crimson wave. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
Mon watched the color spread with clinical interest. “Of course he got hard,” she said, her voice a dry, amused rasp. “Standing there with his little bottom on display, all that attention. His body betrayed him quite obviously. I had to give the insolent thing a few sharp slaps of its own to settle it down.”
The image—Mon’s stern, politician’s hand chastising his erection in a sun-drenched park—struck the table with palpable force. Leia’s breath caught. Padmé’s smile was a slow, wicked curve.
Charlie made a strangled sound and pushed his chair back, the legs screeching on stone. “I’ll, uh, I’ll clear the plates.”
He gathered them with clumsy, clattering haste, fleeing to the kitchen’s sanctuary. The cold water from the tap was a shock on his wrists. He scrubbed diligently, focusing on the glide of sponge over porcelain, trying to drown out their voices. It was futile.
“He moves so gracefully when he’s ashamed,” Padmé mused, loud enough to carry. “Look at the line of his spine. So taut.”
“The apron is a triumph,” Mon replied. “It leaves just enough to the imagination while announcing everything.”
“He’s a good boy,” Padmé sighed, the maternal pride in her tone laced with absolute ownership. “He obeys so beautifully for his Mommy.”
Charlie bowed his head over the sink, the warm humiliation a tight ball in his stomach, a counterpoint to the traitorous thrill between his legs. He dried each plate with excessive care, the soft cloth absorbing his trembling. From a chilled conservator, he retrieved the dessert: a delicate Alderaanian custard dome, glazed with a shimmering golden gel. He carried it out, placing it silently at the table’s center.
“Lovely,” Padmé said, not looking at the dessert but at his hands. “Now, Mon. You mentioned you’d brought the special collection?”
“I did.” Mon reached for a small, nondescript case beside her chair. She placed it on the table, clicking the latches with precise thumbs. The lid opened with a whisper. Inside, nestled in folds of black silk, was a rainbow of fabric. “As requested. For Leia’s… public appointment tomorrow. And for any other lessons in humility we deem necessary.”
She lifted the first pair, pinching the waistband between two fingers. They were a blinding, synthetic white, covered in a riot of cheerful yellow teddy bears, each one holding a balloon. “Classic infantilization. The terrycloth lining is absorbent, for obvious reasons.”
Next came a pair in plasticky, shimmering pink. “Hypergloss,” Mon announced. “With rainbow stripes down the sides and a puffy, 3D unicorn appliqué right over the… center seam. It crinkles when you walk.”
The third pair was a simple, babyish cut in pale blue, dotted with tiny, smiling white hearts. “Deceptively plain. Until one reads the text.” She turned them around. Embroidered across the seat in loopy, childish script were the words: “MY MOMMY IS WATCHING ME.”
Leia stared, her face ashen.
Mon continued, a curator of shame. A pair of voluminous, canary-yellow frills that resembled a toddler’s swimsuit. Another in sickly green with a pattern of rubber-duckies and soap bubbles. A stark white pair with bold red letters on the rear that simply stated: “NAUGHTY GIRL.” One made of a near-translucent, pink lace that would cover nothing, printed with cartoon dinosaurs holding paddles. Another that was essentially a larger version of a pilfered toddler’s training panty, complete with a thick, padded panel.
The final pair she held up was a masterpiece of degradation. They were a soft, brushed cotton, printed with a scene of a cartoon bunny sleeping in a meadow under stars. “The print is thermochromatic,” Mon explained pleasantly. “When warmed—by body heat, or, say, an attentive hand—the bunnies vanish. The message beneath appears.”
She handed them to Padmé, who held them for a moment. The heat of her palm made the pastel meadow fade. Revealed, in stark, typewritten font, was the phrase: “PROPERTY OF THE CROWN. PUNISH AS REQUIRED.”
The women gushed. “The crinkle is inspired,” Padmé said, tapping the unicorn pair. “So audibly penitent.”
“I’m partial to the training style,” Mon countered. “The sheer, bulky suggestion of incontinence is profoundly regressive.”
Padmé’s gaze lifted from the silk case and settled on Charlie, who stood frozen by the sideboard. “We must see how they fit. Model them for us, Charlie. Start with the teddy bears.”
His mouth went dry. “All of them?”
“Did I stutter?” Padmé’s voice was soft steel.
With numb fingers, he untied the apron strings. The thin green fabric slithered down his thighs to pool on the floor. He stood naked again in the dining chamber’s warm light, the air cool on his skin. He took the proffered teddy bear panties. They were shockingly small. He had to step into them carefully, yanking the tight elastic over his hips. The waistband dug into his flesh just below his navel. The terrycloth lining was an absurd, prickly cushion against his cock and balls, the childish print a violent contradiction against his lean, masculine frame.
“Turn,” Padmé commanded.
He turned. The bears grinned over his buttocks. Mon tilted her head. “The cut is perfect. It hugs the cheeks, leaving the lower curve exposed for easy access. Very good. Next.”
It became a methodical, silent ritual. He stepped out of one humiliating garment and into the next, parading before them in pastel frills and glossy prints. The crinkling unicorns made a soft, plasticky rustle with every slight movement. The “NAUGHTY GIRL” text stretched taut across his rear. He stood in the padded training pants, feeling utterly absurd, his face a permanent furnace.
“The bunny pair,” Mon finally said, decisively. “For Leia tomorrow. The transformative element is poetic. The world sees an innocent. We, and she, will know the truth beneath.” She looked at Leia, who was still marooned in her melted cream. “They’ll suit your complex role perfectly, my dear. A princess in bunnies, hiding her true status.”
Throughout this, Leia’s ice cream had fully liquefied, a cold, creamy soup cradling her punished skin. Padmé noticed. She rose, fetched a soft towel from a side console, and without ceremony, began to wipe her daughter down right there at the table. The towel dragged over Leia’s sensitive, warmed flesh, a rough, intimate cleaning. Leia flinched, her eyes squeezing shut, then opening to find Charlie’s gaze. He was standing in the rubber-ducky panties, watching her be tended to like a infant. Their shared mortification was a live wire between them, buzzing with something darker than shame.
Dinner was declared done. Padmé and Mon stood, stretching. As Charlie bent over to gather the final custard bowls, Padmé approached. Her hand, glistening with a faint sheen of garlic oil and butter from the shrimp, landed on his left buttock with a wet, smacking sound. She wiped her palm clean on his bare skin in one slow, deliberate stroke.
“There’s a good boy,” she purred.
Mon followed suit, using his other cheek to cleanse her fingers with the same casual efficiency one would use on a napkin. “Efficient,” she commented.
They left the dining chamber, their low laughter echoing down the hall. Charlie stood trembling, the smell of garlic and seafood on his skin, the greasy prints cooling on his flesh.
He cleaned the rest in a daze. Leia, finally freed from her tub, stood by the window, hugging herself. She was raw, quiet. When the kitchen was spotless, he took her hand. They didn’t go to her lavish bedroom or his assigned quarters. They went to the small, antechamber reserved for high-level servants on night duty, where a simple, narrow cot was pushed against the wall.
They stripped in silence, their clothes joining a pile on the stone floor. The cot was too small, forcing them to lie on their sides, chest to back, her curved spine fitting into the hollow of his stomach. His cock, hard and insistent since the panty parade, pressed against the cleft of her still-warm backside.
The contact was electric. She gasped, pushing back against him. There was no foreplay, no gentle teasing. The night’s humiliations had sanded away all pretense. He reached around, his fingers finding her cunt already slick and swollen. He slid two inside, curling them, and she cried out, bucking against his hand.
“Now,” she snarled, her voice ragged. “Fuck me now, Charlie. Hard.”
He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging her entrance. He pushed in with one relentless, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight, wet heat. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed off the bare walls.
He set a brutal, jackhammer pace, each slam jolting her sore flesh against his hips. The cot frame rattled violently against the stone. His hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries. “You liked it,” he grunted into her ear, pistoning into her. “You liked hearing about my hard cock getting spanked in the park. You’re getting wet thinking about your mom wiping you down in front of me.”
She bit his palm, her body convulsing around him. “Yes! Fuck, yes! I’m a nasty princess and you’re a pathetic boy in bunny panties!”
Her words, filthy and true, pushed him over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, a searing detonation, and he came inside her with a guttural roar, his hips stuttering wildly. The violent pulse of him triggered her own climax; she clamped around him, milking him dry as waves of shame-soaked pleasure wrecked her.
They collapsed, spent and sticky, still joined. The cot groaned beneath them. In the heavy, post-coital silence, the reality of the morning settled like a shroud. The public table. The bunny panties. The watching delegates. Her breath hitched, a suppressed sob.
He held her tighter, his nose buried in her hair. There were no words of comfort that could touch the deep, dark well of what awaited her. There was only this: the shared heat, the salt on their skin, the faint, greasy smell of their dinner still on his backside, and the narrow, unforgiving cot that was their only harbor.