Chapter 4: Leia humiliated
The morning came not with sunlight, but with the efficient rustle of authoritative skirts and the sudden, violent yank of fabric.
Charlie was hauled from unconsciousness by a searing pain in his groin and backside. Mon Mothma’s hand was knotted in the waistband of his discarded sleeping shorts, now serving as a brutal lifting mechanism. She hauled him upward by a literal and agonizing wedge, the cotton carving a searing path between his buttocks. He yelped, feet scrambling for purchase on the cold stone floor of the servant’s antechamber.
Beside him, Leia gave a choked gasp. Padmé had performed the same maneuver, but on the bunny-print panties Leia had been ordered to sleep in. The thermochromatic fabric stretched taut, the sleeping bunnies distorted into alarmed blobs as the elastic dug viciously into her hips and cleft.
“‘Morning, sleepyheads,” Padmé sang, her voice bright and corrosive. “Time to prepare for your day in the spotlight.”
They were marched, hobbled and wincing, by their wedgies, through the private corridors to Leia’s suite. The journey was a silent parade of shame, past early-rising staff who averted their eyes with professional discretion, their cheeks faintly flushed.
In the suite’s ‘fresher, they were ordered to shower. Together. Under Padmé and Mon’s watchful gaze from the doorway.
“Scrub everywhere, Leia,” Padmé instructed, leaning against the frame. “I want you clinically clean for the delegates. Charlie, you will wash her. Thoroughly.”
The water was hot, a temporary shield. Charlie’s hands were gentle as he soaped Leia’s back, her shoulders, the slopes of her breasts. But the atmosphere was sterile, not intimate. Her skin was goosefleshed under his touch, her eyes fixed on the tile. He washed between her legs with a clinical efficiency that felt dirtier than anything they’d done in the dark. Her flinch was microscopic. Mon commented from the door, “Behind the ears, Charlie. A queen must be pristine.”
Dried and raw, Leia was laid out on her bed. Mon produced a small bottle of Alderaanian aloe gel, cool and subtly floral. “To take the worst of the heat from the initial strokes,” she explained, her fingers dipping into the gel. “It won’t prevent the lesson, merely ensure it can be administered to its fullest potential.”
Leia shuddered as Mon’s slick, cool fingers rubbed the gel into her still-tender backside, massaging it deep into the muscle. The touch was methodical, patronizing, a preparation of meat. Charlie, standing nearby in a towel, felt his own guts clench.
Then came the bunny panties. Padmé held them open. “Step in, princess.”
Leia obeyed, the soft cotton a false comfort. They sat high on her waist, childish and incongruous against her elegant frame. Padmé then dressed her in a formal gown of layered, slate-grey gossamer and chrome silk. It was severe, beautiful, and designed with a high, square neckline and long sleeves. It was also, Charlie realized with a sick lurch, completely backless from the waist down. The sleek skirt would do nothing to obscure anything when she was bent over.
Padmé surveyed her daughter, turning her around. The pristine, regal front was a stark lie. From behind, the childish panties were fully visible beneath the translucent grey layers of the skirt, a blush of pastel bunnies against her skin. “Perfect. The dichotomy is the entire point. Now, Charlie. Your role.”
Mon handed him a simple tunic and trousers of dark blue. “You will stand by the service console. You will pour tea. You will not speak, you will not react. You are a piece of furniture with a memory. You will watch everything. Understood?”
He nodded, the weight of the task settling on him like lead.
“And to ensure you remember your place…” Mon said, her smile thin. She had a thin, silken cord. Before he could don his trousers, she looped it around the base of his cock and balls, tying a tight, unforgiving knot. It wasn’t cruel, but it was inescapably present, a constant buzz of restriction and reminder. “A little anchor to your duties,” she whispered, patting his cheek.
The walk to the diplomatic meeting room was the longest of Leia’s life. The gown whispered around her legs. The bunny-print felt like a brand. Charlie’s soft footfalls behind her were a ghost echo. Padmé and Mon led the way, discussing the Blissex trade embargo as if they were heading to a routine budget meeting.
The delegates were already seated when they entered. Four of them—two men, two women—from the Corellian Engineering Consortium. They wore sharp, utilitarian suits. The room smelled of polished stone, steeped tea, and ambition.
“Your Highness, Senator Mothma,” the lead delegate, a man named Golan Raf, stood, his eyes skipping over Leia and Charlie as if they were decor.
“Please, be seated,” Padmé said, her voice a melody of statecraft. “We have much to discuss regarding the hyperdrive licensure. But first, a small matter of palace discipline. I believe my daughter, Princess Leia, owes you an apology for her… exuberance in our last meeting.”
All eyes turned to Leia. She stood stiffly, her chin high, every inch the defiant princess they remembered. The front she presented was flawless.
“The apology,” Padmé continued coolly, “will be demonstrated, not just spoken.”
She nodded to Mon, who moved with serene purpose. Mon cleared a section of the magnificent obsidian table, placing a velvet pad on its surface. She didn’t speak. She simply looked at Leia and pointed to the pad.
Leia’s breath hitched. The room was utterly silent, save for the faint hum of the climate control. The delegates’ confusion was a palpable thing. Golan Raf opened his mouth, then closed it, his political instincts warring with sheer bewilderment.
Leia walked to the table. Her back was to the delegates. She heard a soft, sharp intake of breath from one of the women as she leaned forward, placing her palms flat on the cool stone. The action lifted the back of her gown, draping it over her back. The entire back of the dress was now a fallen curtain, revealing from her mid-spine down.
The bunny-print panties were fully exposed to the four Corellians.
A beat of stunned silence. Then a muffled, choked sound from one of the men.
Padmé stepped forward, now holding not a hairbrush, but a long, flexible, polished ruler made of dense Alderaanian whalebone. She tapped it lightly against her palm. The snick-snick sound was obscenely loud.
“Twenty strokes,” Padmé announced, her voice still perfectly diplomatic, “for the insult to our valued allies. You will count them, Leia. You will thank me for each one. And you will keep your position. If you rise, we start again.”
Leia closed her eyes. The first swish of the ruler through the air was a terrible promise.
Thwack!
The impact was a bright, clean line of fire, laid directly across both cheeks. The sound was a crisp, shocking report in the quiet room.
“One,” Leia gasped, the word punched out of her. “Thank you, Mother.”
Thwack!
“Two. Thank you, Mother.”
The whalebone was a maestro of pain. It didn’t thud; it sang, a high, biting sting that seemed to vibrate in the bone beneath. With each stroke, Leia’s body jerked. Her knuckles were white on the table. Charlie, pouring tea at the console with robotic precision, saw the delegates’ faces. The initial shock had melted into a kaleidoscope of reactions: the older woman looked away, her neck blushed; the younger woman watched, fascinated, her lips parted; one man stared, frozen, a strange rigidity in his posture; Golan Raf’s expression was one of dawning, uncomfortable comprehension.
Thwack!
“Six. Thank you, Mother.”
The bunny print was disappearing. The thermochromatic fabric, warmed by the violent impact and her blazing skin, was fading. The bunnies vanished from the center outwards, retreating from each searing stripe. In their place, the stark, typewritten text emerged: PROPERTY OF THE CROWN. PUNISH AS REQUIRED.
“By the stars,” the younger female delegate whispered, the words slipping out.
Padmé did not pause. The ruler fell in a relentless, rhythmic cadence. Leia’s count grew more strained, her voice thick with unshed tears. The revealed text became a blatant, humiliating headline on her punished flesh.
Thwack!
“Fifteen. Th-thank you, Mother.”
Leia was shaking, sweat beading at her temples. The ruler had turned her entire backside a uniform, fierce red, the text now stood out in pale contrast on the inflamed skin.
The final stroke, the twentieth, was the hardest. Padmé put her shoulder into it, a final, punctuating blow that made Leia scream, her body bowing upwards before collapsing onto the velvet pad, sobbing openly.
“Twenty,” she wept, the words barely audible. “Thank you, Mother.”
Silence descended, broken only by Leia’s ragged breathing. Padmé placed the ruler on the table with a soft, final click. She smoothed her gown.
“The apology is concluded,” she said to the delegates, her voice still maddeningly pleasant. “Now, shall we discuss those hyperdrive tolerances? I believe you had concerns about the Class Two modifications.”
It was Mon who stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Leia’s trembling back. “Up, dear. Corner time. Facing our guests. Let them see the cost of poor diplomacy.”
Slowly, agonizingly, Leia pushed herself up. The gown slipped back down, covering the damage, but her face was a wreck of tears and smudged dignity. Mon guided her to a plain, straight-backed chair placed in the corner of the room, angled to face the table. She was sat down, and the moment her sore, ravaged backside made contact with the unyielding wood, she hissed, her body tensing. She was to sit there, on her fresh punishment, and watch the negotiations.
She was to sit there, on her fresh punishment, and watch the negotiations. Each tiny shift on the hard seat sent a fresh wave of heat radiating through her, a throbbing counterpoint to the dry, technical language of hyperdrive coil specifications. Charlie stood frozen at his console, the silken cord a persistent, nagging reminder that his own role was one of enforced observation.
The delegates tried to focus. They really did. But their eyes kept flicking to the corner, to the princess sitting with rigid, damp-eyed stillness. The older female delegate, Janya, finally leaned towards Golan Raf and whispered, “The… text. It faded in. Did you see?”
“I saw,” he muttered, adjusting a datapad without looking at it.
The conversation stuttered, a ship with a faulty motivator. Every term was debated with half a mind. The delegates were distracted, their political equilibrium unsettled by the raw, human spectacle embedded in the formal room. They weren’t horrified; they were fascinated. The younger woman, Elara, kept glancing at Leia’s midsection, as if she could see the branded words through the gown.
After twenty interminable minutes, Mon cleared her throat. “This is inefficient. Princess Leia, approach the table.”
Leia stood, the movement grimly deliberate. She walked forward, the earlier defiance utterly spent, replaced by a hollowed-out acceptance. Padmé and Mon exchanged a glance that wasn’t part of their script—a flicker of surprised, stern assessment. This was Leia’s move.
Leia stopped before the four Corellians. She didn’t look at her mother or Mon. She looked at the delegates, her face still streaked but her voice shockingly clear.
“My words were a dishonor to you, and to this process,” she began, the royal cadence perfected through agonizing drills finally meaning something. “A verbal apology is insufficient. The ruler was my mother’s right. But the humility… that must be offered to you.”
She took a slow, deep breath, her hands clenched at her sides. “Therefore, I ask you, each of you, if you would be willing to… to administer your own disciplinary measure. To put your hands on me. As a gesture of contrition from the Crown of Alderaan, and to formally balance the insult.”
The silence was absolute. Golan Raf’s mouth was slightly open. Elara’s eyes were wide.
“You want us to… spank you?” Janya asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and a strange, cautious intrigue.
“Yes,” Leia said, her gaze steady. “And to… handle the area. To know the lesson is accepted. If you are willing.”
A long, taut moment stretched. Then Golan Raf, the lead delegate, gave a slow, single nod. “A tangible show of good faith. Unconventional. But… acceptable.”
One by one, the others nodded. Elara nodded last, a quick, eager jerk of her chin.
“Assume the position, Leia,” Padmé said softly, her expression unreadable.
Leia turned, presenting herself again. She gathered the grey gossamer of her skirt in her fists, pulling it up and back over her shoulders, leaving her bare from the waist down. The whalebone’s furious work was on full display, a canvas of overlapping crimson stripes, the pale text still visible in the angry landscape.
Golan Raf stood first. He approached with the solemnity of a man performing a strange, new ritual. He placed a tentative hand on her left cheek, the heat shocking him. He brought his other hand down in a firm, measured slap. It wasn’t brutal, but it was authoritative. He then squeezed the flesh, testing its warmth, his businessman’s grip impersonal and thorough.
“The debt is acknowledged,” he stated, returning to his seat.
Janya was next. Her touch was quicker, two sharp smacks that made Leia flinch, followed by a brisk, almost clinical grope, her fingers pressing into the sorest parts. “Balance is restored,” she announced, her own cheeks flushed.
The younger male delegate, Finn, was nervous. His spanks were awkward, fluttering things, but his hands lingered, exploring the texture of the punishment with a curiosity that felt more intimate than the others. “Uh, settled,” he mumbled, retreating quickly.
Finally, Elara rose. There was no hesitation in her. She delivered four crisp, stinging slaps in rapid succession, her palm finding untouched spots with unnerving accuracy. Her subsequent grope was possessive, a full-handed kneading that drew a sharp gasp from Leia. “Now we understand each other, Princess,” she said, her voice low and pleased.
Leia, shuddering, let her skirt fall. She turned back to them, her composure a fragile shell. “Thank you. To each of you. I am in your debt.”
She then walked back to the corner chair and sat, the contact a fresh jolt of pain she absorbed without a sound.
The atmosphere in the room had transformed. The strange tension was gone, replaced by a peculiar, settled respect. Golan Raf leaned forward, tapping his datapad. “Now. The Class Two modifications. I think we can accept your proposed tolerances, Senator Mothma. In fact, on the secondary manifold issue, we’re prepared to concede to your original terms.”
The negotiations flowed like melted butter. Every point Mon and Padmé raised was met with agreeable collaboration. The delegates were utterly, disarmingly pleased. The hyperdrive licensure was finalized in under ten minutes, with terms far more favorable to Alderaan than anyone had anticipated.
As the delegates rose to leave, they each gave a slight, respectful bow—not just to Padmé and Mon, but to the corner where Leia sat. Then they were gone.
The door sealed with a soft hiss.
Padmé and Mon stared at Leia. The stern looks they had shot her earlier had melted into something else entirely. Padmé’s face broke first, not into a smile, but into a look of sheer, stunned maternal pride. Mon simply nodded, a deep, approving satisfaction in her eyes.
“Get up,” Padmé said, her voice thick.
Leia rose, wincing.
Mon crossed the room and pulled Leia into a firm, unexpected embrace. “That was politically brilliant,” she murmured into Leia’s hair. “Instinctual. You turned a humiliation into a powerful transactional ritual. You gave them a piece of your pride and in return, they gave us the galaxy.”
Padmé joined them, cupping Leia’s face. “You understood the assignment in a way we never taught you. My fierce, clever girl.”
The praise, so direct and earned, unspooled something tight in Leia’s chest. A sob escaped her, but it was laced with a kind of triumphant relief.
“Forget our afternoon tutorial, Leia,” Mon said, releasing her. “That lesson is obsolete. We’re having lunch. Just us. Charlie, you’re included. Go change into something comfortable.”
They reconvened in a sun-drenched private salon, not the formal dining hall. Platters of simple, delicious food were laid out. Leia wore soft trousers and a tunic. Charlie was in normal clothes, the silken cord finally removed. He ate quietly, listening.
“Why did you do it?” Padmé asked, sipping her iced tea. “Truly.”
Leia picked at a piece of bread. “I saw their faces. They weren’t satisfied with just watching. They wanted to participate. To have a hand in it. To own a piece of the story. So I gave it to them. Made them complicit. It wasn’t just my humility anymore; it was our transaction.”
Mon laughed, a real, unfettered sound. “You’re going to be a menace in the Senate. A beautiful, terrifying menace.” She leaned back. “You’ve earned a story. What do you want to hear?”
Leia’s eyes, still puffy but now glittering, shifted to Charlie. “The park was good. But there has to be another one. Something… lengthier.”
Charlie groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “No. Please.”
“Oh yes,” Mon said, her eyes gleaming with fond reminiscence. “There was the time with the visiting Ithorian delegation. Charlie was fifteen and decided their herbivorous nature implied passivity. He mimicked their dual-mouth speech patterns during a formal garden walk, quite insultingly.”
Padmé rested her chin on her hand, utterly captivated.
“I was livid. I took him to the guest wing’s linen closet,” Mon continued. “I made him strip and bend over a pile of freshly laundered towels. I used my hairbrush, the heavy wooden one. Two hundred strokes.”
Charlie’s ears were scarlet.
“But the real punishment was the interruption,” Mon said, savoring the memory. “The head Ithorian, Mother Sona, heard the noise. She walked in, saw everything. Instead of leaving, she asked if she could observe, stating that understanding correction rituals was part of their cultural study. I said of course.”
Leia was leaning forward, her food forgotten.
“So I continued. And Mother Sona asked questions in that gentle, double-voice. ‘Does the intensity vary with the transgression?’ ‘Is the erythema a desired outcome?’ Charlie was trying to answer between sobs. She even requested to feel the temperature difference between brushed and unbrushed skin.” Mon smiled. “It took an hour. He couldn’t walk straight for two days, and he had to attend the rest of the delegation’s events, knowing Mother Sona had watched his entire… seminar.”
Padmé was laughing softly, shaking her head. She reached over and ruffled Charlie’s hair. “You glorious, ridiculous boy. I can’t wait until you earn one of those around here.”
Charlie peeked out from between his fingers, his grimace betraying a flicker of undeniable interest. “You’re all horrible,” he mumbled, the lack of conviction obvious to everyone.
Leia reached under the table, finding his hand and squeezing it. The sun warmed the room, glinting off the tea glasses. The lingering scent of lavender from the gardens outside mixed with the memory of whalebone and the solid, satisfying taste of a deal well-struck.