Chapter 6: More punishment
The cool, solid wood of Mon’s office door was the only thing holding Charlie up. He pressed his forehead against it, the polished surface a small anchor against the tidal wave of exposure still crashing through him. His skin felt foreign, too thin, humming with the memory of a thousand eyes.
Behind him, the soft chime of a disconnecting comlink echoed.
“Turn around,” Mon’s voice was unchanged. Calm. The same tone she’d use to comment on the weather.
He forced himself to comply, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, making no attempt to cover himself now. What was the point? The walk had carved the shame too deep for modesty.
Mon was seated again behind her desk. She looked at him, not at his body, but at his face—at the storm of humiliation and defiance warring in his eyes. “The walk was to recalibrate your perspective. This,” she said, gesturing to the space in front of her, “is to settle the account. Come here.”
He walked forward, the plush carpet alien under his bare feet. He stopped before her.
“Over my knee, Charlie.”
It was so mundane. So domestic. After the grand, horrific theater of his public penance, this felt almost insultingly simple. He bent, arranging himself across her lap, the fine wool of her skirts scratching his hips. The position was childish, vulnerably intimate. From here, he could see the legs of her desk, a forgotten datachip under a chair.
Her hand was cool when it rested on his backside, which was already sensitized by the cool air and lingering shame. “Thirty strokes,” she stated. “For the thirty minutes of wasted Senate time your ‘creative errors’ would have caused. Count them.”
The first slap was a crack that shattered the quiet room. It wasn’t the searing precision of Leia’s switch; this was a broad, stinging impact that warmed his skin in a sudden, painful bloom.
“One,” he gasped.
She took her time. The spanking was methodical, thorough, covering every inch of his sit-spots with a steady, rhythmic pace. It was painful, deeply so, each smack layering a sharp heat onto the last. But it was also… contained. A closed loop of cause and effect. It lacked the terrifying unknown of the walk. This, he understood.
“Fifteen.”
His skin was burning, a uniform, glowing red. He was hard against her leg, a traitorous physiological response he couldn’t control, and he knew she could feel it. The mixture of pain, shame, and raw exposure was a potent, confusing cocktail.
The final ten were heavier, sharper, landing on the tenderest crests of his cheeks. He stumbled through the counts, his voice thick.
“Thirty.”
It was over. The office air felt cool on his scorched skin. She let him lie there for a moment, her hand resting lightly on the punished flesh, before giving him a light pat.
“Up. Get dressed.”
He moved stiffly, the act of pulling his clothes back on a tender, awkward ordeal. Each brush of fabric was a reminder. He sat carefully on the edge of the chair he’d folded his clothes on, wincing as he made contact.
Mon was already activating her holocom. The blue light shimmered, and after a moment, Padmé’s form resolved, seated in a sunlit alcove of the palace, a data-slate in her hand.
“Mon. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Padmé. I’m sending Charlie home. He’s completed his corrective tutorial here, but I believe the journey would benefit from your supervision.”
Padmé’s eyes, sharp and knowing, flickered as if she could see past the hologram to where Charlie sat, miserably erect and thoroughly spanked. A small, understanding smile touched her lips. “Of course. The main speeder lot? I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Perfect. We’ll discuss the Kessel proposal tomorrow. Goodbye.”
The hologram vanished. Mon looked at Charlie. “The main lot. You will wait by my speeder. You will not put your trousers back on. Padmé will find you.”
The walk to the private speeder lot was a shorter, more private humiliation. A few staff members in the corridor averted their eyes faster this time, their cheeks flushed. The lot was open to the sky, a maze of elegant vehicles. He found Mon’s sleek, silver speeder and stood beside it, facing the wall, his trousers and briefs in a neat bundle on the passenger seat where she’d instructed him to place them.
Coruscant’s afternoon sun was warm on his back, cool on his front. The raised, throbbing warmth of his backside was a neon sign he felt sure the entire city could see. He heard the purr of approaching engines, the chatter of other drivers, the distant city-hum. Each sound made him flinch.
Her speeder was silent, a graceful black arrow that glided to a halt beside him. The passenger canopy hissed open.
Padmé didn’t get out. She sat in the driver’s seat, her elegant hands resting on the controls. She looked at him, her gaze traveling slowly, appreciatively, from his flushed face down his tense body to the vivid red evidence of Mon’s handiwork.
“Well,” she said, her voice a blend of maternal warmth and mild reproof. “Senator Mothma does fine work. Very thorough. Turn around, let me see the full picture.”
Cheeks burning hotter than his backside, he turned, presenting the full, stinging view.
“Mhm. A uniform canvas. She was always more of a broad-strokes artist when the foundation needed laying.” He heard her shift. “Alright, get in. Back seat.”
Climbing into the enclosed space was agony, the plush upholstery an unforgiving counterpoint to his skin. He lay across the back seats, his position obvious and deliberate.
Padmé engaged the autopilot, the speeder lifting smoothly into a mid-level traffic lane. Then she turned in her seat, her arm resting on the headrest as she looked back at him.
“You had a big day, didn’t you, Charlie?” she asked, her voice soft. “A walk, I hear. And then a spanking. All that attention.” Her free hand came to rest lightly on him, and he jerked. Her touch was cool, exploring, tracing the boundaries of the heat. “You push because you like the consequences. I know that. Mon knows that. There’s no shame in the preference. But there is a line between enjoying the game and disrespecting the players.”
Her first slap was sudden, a sharp, crisp sound in the enclosed cabin. It wasn’t about damage—Mon had already provided that. This was about emphasis.
“That,” she said, “is for thinking your charm makes your negligence adorable.” Smack.
“This is for wasting your aunt’s time.” Smack. Smack.
“And these,” a quick, stinging volley that made him push up onto his toes, “are from me, for the sheer lack of imagination in those budget reports. I expected better.”
It was a tame, almost ritualistic addition. The pain was superficial, a seasoning on the deeper roast Mon had given him. But the intimacy of it, the gentle scold in her voice, the fact that it was Padmé in the close quiet of her speeder, was profoundly affecting.
She stopped, rubbing the sore skin in a way that was both soothing and possessive. “Alright, darling. Up you get. You can get dressed now.”
He scrambled up, pulling his clothes on with trembling hands as the palace spires grew larger in the viewport. The fabric was a sweet, terrible torment.
Padmé watched him, her expression softening into something like affection. “Leia’s waiting. She’s had her own day of learning. I think the two of you need to talk. And then,” she added, a glint returning to her eye as she guided the speeder into the private royal dock, “we have a family dinner. Your sister has been asking about you. She’s devised a new ‘greeting’ she’s eager to demonstrate.”
Charlie’s stomach did a slow, sinking flip. The memory of the last “greeting”—a bucket of glitter-filled syrup poised over his doorway—collided with the lingering sting of his lessons. The day wasn’t over. It was just changing venues.
The palace dock enveloped the speeder in shadow, the sudden quiet a shock after the city’s roar. Charlie followed Padmé inside, the elegant halls feeling like a gauntlet. Every servant’s polite nod felt like a witness to the heat still pulsing under his clothes.
He found Leia in her solar, sprawled on a divan with a datapad. She wasn’t reading. She was staring at the wall, her own posture carefully stiff. She looked over as he entered, and a silent conversation passed between them in the lift of an eyebrow, the slight wince as she shifted her weight.
“Let me guess,” Leia said, her voice dry. “Aunt Mon gave you a geometry lesson.”
“More of a public exhibition,” Charlie muttered, sinking into a chair with exaggerated care. “Followed by a traditional summation. Your mom provided the concluding remarks in transit.”
A genuine, weary smile touched Leia’s lips. “Switch?”
“Hand. Thirty. You?”
“Switch. I lost count.” She let out a long breath. “I called her a soft touch. Can you believe that?”
Charlie’s laugh was short, pained. “Yeah. I can. I basically implied her entire rebellion was bureaucratic. We’re idiots.”
“We are,” Leia agreed, but she reached out, her fingers finding his. The contact was simple, grounding. “Still worth it?”
He looked at their joined hands, then at her, seeing the same complex cocktail of chagrin and thrill in her eyes. “Ask me tomorrow. When I can sit down to answer.”
Mon Mothma watched the royal speeder depart from her office window, a rare quiet settling over her. The day’s tutorials had been efficacious, but draining. Her own concentration felt frayed. She gathered her things, dismissing her aides for the evening, and headed for the public transit tier.
The cool upper-level air bit through her senatorial robes. She hailed a passing air taxi, a modest yellow craft, and slid into the back seat. “The Alderaanian royal palace, please.”
The flight was smooth, the glittering cityscape blurring past. It was only as they descended towards the palace’s public arrival tier that she reached for her credit chip holder. It wasn’t there. A cold, unprofessional flush crept up her neck. She’d left it on her desk, distracted by the final adjustments to the Kessel proposal.
The taxi settled onto the platform. The driver, a woman with sharp eyes and grey streaks in her dark hair, turned. “Twelve credits.”
Mon cleared her throat. “I seem to have forgotten my payment method. A moment of profound oversight.” She met the woman’s gaze in the rear-view. “Might we… come to an alternative arrangement?”
The driver, Elaine, according the taxi’s licence displayed on the dash, turned fully, her expression shifting from annoyance to keen interest. “What kind of arrangement, ma’am?”
“I believe a proper spanking would settle the debt,” Mon said, her voice never losing its senatorial cadence. “If you would be willing to administer one.”
Elaine’s eyebrows rose. She got out, opened Mon’s door. “Alright. Out you get.”
With the graceful composure of someone entering a diplomatic function, Mon stepped out. She smoothed her skirts, then turned, bending fluidly over the warm hood of the taxi. She presented herself, awaiting correction.
Elaine didn’t hesitate. Her hand was broad, her swing practiced. The first smack was a loud, shocking crack that echoed in the semi-enclosed dock. Mon gasped, her fingers splaying on the taxi’s hood.
The spanking was hard, relentless, and utterly without ceremony. Elaine worked efficiently, covering the offered area with stinging, unforgiving smacks. It was a utility spanking, a payment processing. Mon’s composure dissolved into sharp inhales and shifting feet, her cheeks burning fiercely under the assault.
It stopped. Mon pushed herself up, hands flying back to rub her thoroughly heated posterior. A blush she hadn’t felt in years painted her cheeks.
“There,” Elaine said, handing Mon a small card with a comm number. “Debt paid. My name’s Elaine. You call that taxi, you ask for me. Understood?”
“Yes,” Mon said, the word breathless. “Thank you.”
She turned to go, but Elaine’s hand shot out, firmly pushing her back down over the hood. “Not so fast.” Skirt was flipped up, revealing Mon’s bare skin to the cool dock air. Elaine chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Commando for a senator? Risque.”
“Panties are a privilege,” Mon managed, her face pressed to the metal. “Easily revoked.”
“I’ve always wanted to spank a senator,” Elaine mused, and her hand came down again, starting a second, fiercer round on the already tenderized flesh.
This time Mon cried out, her legs kicking slightly. It was overwhelming, a raw and shocking contrast to the controlled environments of her life. When it finally ended, she was panting. “Thank you, Elaine,” she whispered, sincerity edging the formal words.
She hurried into the palace, her walk subtly altered, a secret heat carried with her through the grand halls.
Padmé intercepted her near the private family wing. She took one look at Mon’s flustered cheeks, the way she moved, and her eyes narrowed. “Mon. You’re walking like Charlie.”
“Nonsense,” Mon said, too quickly.
“You’re blushing like Leia did. What happened?”
Mon tried to deflect, but Padmé was a queen and a mother, her interrogation gentle and inexorable. In the quiet of a antechamber, the story spilled out—the forgotten chip, the taxi, Elaine.
“You let a taxi driver spank you bare in a public lot?” Padmé’s voice was a mix of astonishment and delight.
“It was a financial settlement!”
“Fetch Charlie and Leia,” Padmé said, a slow smile spreading. “Now.”
When the two younger ones entered, confusion turned to gleeful recognition. “Turn around, Aunt Mon,” Leia said, her voice brimming with suddenly equalized power.
With a sigh that was half genuine resignation, half secret relief, Mon presented herself. Charlie let out a low whistle. “Elaine doesn’t mess around. That’s a masterpiece.”
Leia reached out, giving one glowing cheek a firm, familiar spank. Mon jumped. Charlie followed suit, a proprietary grope that made her squeak. “Seems fair’s fair,” he said. “You inspected mine.”
“I have a pair of punishment panties in my room,” Charlie announced. “The scratchy wool ones with the ‘Sorry’ stitching. Go put them on. Now.”
Mon’s eyes widened, but she went. She returned minutes later, her dignified stride further compromised by the ugly, abrasive garment. Leia was already back, holding a large tub of Alderaanian frost-cream and a spoon.
“Corner time,” Padmé decreed, pointing. “You can think about the security implications of baring your assets to civilian contractors. And you’ll hold this.” She placed the frost-cream tub in Mon’s hands. “Against the small of your back. Arms extended.”
Mon took her place in the corner, the cold tub pressing the terrible panties against her sore skin. The humiliation was domestic, silly, and profoundly effective.
From the divan, Padmé sipped her wine. “The public lot was a bold choice, Mon. Reckless, but bold. It has a certain… democratic appeal.”
“The immediacy was the point,” Mon said to the wall, her voice thoughtful despite her position. “No ceremony. No lesson plan. Just consequence. It was… clarifying.”
“More clarifying than the switch?”
“Different. The switch teaches precision. The taxi driver teaches immediacy. Humiliation needs to be tailored to the intellect. For Leia, it’s the strategic flaw. For Charlie, it’s the public mirror. For a distracted senator…” Mon shifted, the frost-cream tub wobbling. “It’s the mundane presented as utterly inescapable.”
“I’ll remember that,” Padmé said softly, exchanging a glance with Leia and Charlie, who watched, learning.