Chapter 8: A date
The laughter from the kitchen had dissipated, leaving behind a pleasant, aching warmth and the urgent need for pants. An hour later, Leia found Charlie in the grand hall, studying a tapestry depicting the Festival of Renewal with intense, fake interest. He was back in his usual clothes—dark trousers, a soft grey tunic—but she could see the subtle stiffness in his posture when he shifted his weight.
“They’re staring at you,” she said, coming up beside him.
“Who is?”
“The woven Uvaks in that tapestry. They’re judging your life choices.”
He snorted, finally looking at her. She’d changed into civilian clothes too: sturdy boots, dark leggings, a worn leather jacket over a simple tunic. Rebel gear, repurposed. It was a statement. “Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Anywhere but here. I have a six-hour block on my schedule titled ‘Postural Refinement and Tea Porcelain Handling.’ I’d rather chew on my own boot.”
“Sounds crunchy.”
“It’s an emergency. Rescue me. Take me into the city. Get me something fried and utterly undignified.”
He grinned, that lopsided, easy smile that always felt like a secret. “Your mother just… rearranged my priorities for the week. You think she’ll approve of a field trip?”
“She told me I needed ‘practical experience in civilian engagement.’ This is engagement. I plan to engage very passionately with a cloud-cake.” She looped her arm through his. “Come on. We can compare notes.”
The city of Aldera spread out below the palace spires, a cascade of white stone and green glass threaded with canals. They took a speeder bike, Leia piloting with a reckless joy that made Charlie cling tighter, his laughter stolen by the wind. They ditched the bike in a public garage and melted into the bustling midday crowd of the merchant district.
The air here was different—thick with the smells of sizzling street food, engine oil, and the sweet, powdery scent of milling flour. It was loud, uncurated, and alive. Leia visibly relaxed, her shoulders dropping an inch as the protocol-sharpened edges of her posture blurred into something more natural.
They found a small café tucked between a droid repair shop and a bookstore, its tables spilling onto a cobbled patio under strings of gentle light. They ordered cloud-cakes—fluffy, fried dough drenched in honey and crushed nuts—and caf so strong it could power a starfighter.
For a while, they just ate, watching the crowd. A group of schoolchildren chased a repulsor-ball. A vendor argued good-naturedly with a customer over the price of Loth-cat figurines.
“So,” Leia finally said, licking honey from her thumb. “Comparative analysis.”
“Right.” Charlie shifted on the wrought-iron chair, a slight wince betraying him. “Mon’s is… precise. It’s like she’s applying a philosophical principle directly to your ass. Each smack is a footnote.”
Leia laughed, nearly choking on her caf. “Accurate. Mom’s is more… holistic. It’s less about individual points and more about creating a general atmosphere of regret.”
“Yours was louder.”
“Only because you were yelping like a stepped-on tooka and throwing off my concentration.”
He kicked her boot under the table. “I did not yelp. I offered… pointed feedback.”
Their easy banter was a blanket, softening the edges of the morning’s exposure. It was their way of processing—turning vulnerability into shared comedy.
“Seriously, though,” Leia said, her voice lowering. She leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table. “How are you? That was… a lot. Before the spanking, I mean. The apron.”
Charlie’s ears went pink. He swirled his caf, watching the dark liquid vortex. “It was intense. I felt like a… living sculpture. ‘Boy With Pastries, After Discipline.’” He looked up, meeting her eyes. “But weirdly okay? It felt like a test I didn’t know I was taking. And I passed. Even with Lily’s running commentary.”
“She’s a demon.”
“Your mother gave me permission, you know,” he said casually. “To punish her. For the pranks.”
Leia’s eyebrows shot up. “Get out. She did not.”
“She did. Said if Lily acts up around me, I have her full authority to ‘correct the attitude.’”
A slow, wicked smile spread across Leia’s face. “That is the best news I’ve heard all week. Promise you’ll let me watch.”
“Negotiable.” He took a sip, his expression turning more thoughtful. “Does it ever bother you? How easily they just… incorporate it? The talking about it over breakfast like it’s crop rotation yields?”
Leia was quiet for a moment, watching a transport speeder hum past. “It used to. When I was younger, I thought it was the weirdest, most embarrassing secret in the galaxy. Now…” She shrugged. “It’s just part of the architecture. It’s how they care. It’s direct. There’s no guessing, no lingering resentment. It happens, it’s dealt with, you move on. In a way, it’s simpler than all the Senate backbiting I’m supposed to be learning.”
“A swift realignment of priorities,” Charlie quoted Mon’s words from the morning.
“Exactly. I’d take a realignment over political ambiguity any day.” She grimaced. “Which reminds me. I have to give my first sub-committee address next week. On interstellar waste reclamation subsidies.”
“Thrilling.”
“I’d rather have another ‘maintenance session’ with Mom and Aunty Mon at the same time.” She said it as a joke, but there was a genuine weight behind it. The pressure of her new role was a constant, low-grade hum.
Charlie reached across the table, his fingers covering hers. “You’ll be brilliant. You’ll just stand there, channel all that princess defiance into polite, devastating logic, and every stuffy senator in the room will feel an inexplicable urge to sit very, very carefully.”
She laughed, turning her hand to squeeze his. “You have to be there. In the gallery. So I can look at you when I say the word ‘effluent’ and not crack up.”
“Done.”
They paid and wandered, aimless, through the winding streets. The conversation drifted—plans, silly gossip about palace staff, memories of stupid rebel missions. The ease between them was a physical thing, a space where they could both just be, without title or expectation.
Eventually, they found a small, secluded public garden overlooking one of the quieter canals. Gravel paths wound through beds of datura, their trumpet flowers closed tight against the afternoon sun. A bench of polished river stone sat half-hidden by a willow.
Leia sat first, letting out a contented sigh. Charlie joined her, the cool stone a shock through his trousers. They both jolted slightly at the contact, a simultaneous, sharp inhale.
“Stars,” Leia breathed.
“Yeah.”
A silent, mutual understanding passed between them. The playful comparison over breakfast was one thing. This was another. A direct, physical confirmation of the morning’s events, a private assessment.
Leia glanced around. The garden was deserted. The only sound was the whisper of the willow and the distant murmur of the canal.
“Proof?” she whispered, a challenge and an invitation in her eyes.
Charlie’s mouth went dry. He nodded.
With a quick, furtive look down the empty path, Leia stood. She turned her back to him, her fingers going to the fastening of her leggings. She pushed them down just enough, the waistband catching at the tops of her thighs. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression a mix of defiance and self-conscious theater.
The skin was visibly warmed, a uniform, gentle blush across both curves. The evidence of Padmé’s broader, shallower technique.
“See?” she said. “Atmospheric regret.”
“Hmm.” Charlie nodded with mock solemnity. He stood, turning as well. He undid his trousers, letting them drop slightly. The view in his mind’s eye was confirmed: a more targeted, concentrated redness, centered perfectly. Mon’s surgical precision.
“Philosophical footnote,” he said.
They pulled their clothes back up, the fabric feeling oddly abrasive and sensitive, and sat back down. This time, the discomfort was a shared, intimate fact, a secret heat between them on the cool stone.
“We’re ridiculous,” Leia said, but she was smiling, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Profoundly.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a long while, watching the light dapple on the water. The shared vulnerability had deepened the calm. It wasn’t about the spanking itself. It was about the absolute, unflinching seeing of each other—the permissions, the embarrassments, the tender spots.
“Thank you,” Leia said softly. “For the date. For the distraction.”
“Anytime, Princess.” He kissed the top of her head. “Even if I have to cook naked for it.”
She elbowed him gently, and he caught it, threading his fingers through hers. The future—the sub-committees, the protocols, the unending weight of a galaxy being rebuilt—waited for them back up the hill. But here, on this hidden bench, with the datura sleeping and their skin still humming with the same warm secret, they had built a small, perfect pocket of now. It was enough.
The calm of the bench settled into their bones, a temporary reprieve. Leia shifted against his shoulder, her breathing slow and measured. Then her fingers, which had been loosely intertwined with his, tightened their grip.
“Don’t move,” she murmured, her voice low and different. It had lost its casual ease, gaining a layer of cool, practiced command. It was the voice that had directed rebel troopers.
Charlie went very still. “What?”
“I said don’t move.” She lifted her head from his shoulder, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed across the canal, regal and detached. “We’re not alone here. We’re being watched. By Imperial sympathizers. They’re assessing our weakness.”
He understood instantly. A thrill shot through him, sharp and electric. This was their language, deeper than breakfast banter. “How many?” he whispered, playing along.
“Two by the fountain. One near the datura patch pretending to read a datapad.” Her hand slid from his, coming to rest on his thigh. Her touch was no longer affectionate; it was possessive, evaluative. “You drew attention to us. Earlier. Your lack of discipline was noted.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he breathed, letting a note of petulant guilt color his tone. The ‘naughty boy’ confession.
“Your intentions are irrelevant. Only your actions.” Finally, she turned her head. Her eyes were hard, commander’s eyes. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, Charlie. Compromising a secure position. You need punishing. Don’t you?”
He swallowed, his throat tight. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I need punishing.” The words were a bare whisper, swallowed by the rustling leaves.
“Louder.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Do the watching agents think a rebel confesses his failures in a whisper? Or do they hear his shame?”
“I NEED PUNISHING!” he said, his voice strangled but audible across the quiet garden. An elderly man feeding birds by the canal glanced over, frowned, and looked away.
“Better.” Leia stood, pulling him up by his arm. Her strength was surprising, decisive. “They are watching. They will see justice served. Here. Now.” She marched him from the secluded bench onto the main gravel path that curved through the heart of the park. Families strolled. Couples held hands. A group of teenagers clustered around a sonic projector, music tinny in the air.
“Leia,” Charlie hissed, real panic licking at the edges of the game. This was exposure of a different magnitude.
“Silence.” She stopped in the center of the path, near a bubbling quartz fountain. The sunlight was merciless, exposing everything. With efficient, ruthless hands, she undid his belt. The buckle clinked. She unbuttoned his trousers. He made a small, helpless sound as she yanked them down to his ankles, followed by his underwear. The cool afternoon air washed over his exposed skin.
A woman walking past gasped, hurriedly steering her child away. Someone chuckled. Heat flooded Charlie’s face, a burning tide of utter humiliation. He stared straight ahead, his entire body rigid.
“This,” Leia announced, her voice ringing with absolute authority, “is the price of carelessness.” Her hand was not broad and warm like her mother’s. It was swift and stinging. She didn’t spank his backside.
She spanked his cock and balls.
The first slap landed with a sharp, wet smack against his exposed flesh. It was a shocking, visceral pain—deep, resonant, and utterly vulnerable. He cried out, knees buckling. She held him upright by his arm.
Another slap. Then another. Not rapid, but measured and cruel, each impact a jolt of unbearable sensation that was equal parts sting and profound, degrading exposure. Tears sprung to his eyes, blurred the shocked faces of strangers gathering at a perimeter. The teenagers had stopped their music to stare, open-mouthed.
“Count them,” Leia commanded, her expression serene and pitiless as a moon.
“One,” he choked out.
Another stinging impact.
“Two!”
She delivered five, each louder than the last on the tense silence of the park. When she finished, he was trembling, his face a mask of scarlet shame, his exposed genitals throbbing and flushed.
The humiliation was total, cavernous, and he was lost in it. Then she took it further.
She didn’t let him pull his clothes up. She left him there, trousers around his ankles, for a long, terrible minute. She turned slowly, making eye contact with the scattered, stunned onlookers—the mother, the teens, the elderly couple.
“The New Republic thanks you for your witness,” she stated, her tone formal and chilling, as if this were an official proceeding. She pulled a small, crisp credit chit from her pocket—a five-credit note—and held it out to the nearest teenager. “For your discretion.”
The boy took it, dumbfounded.
Then, and only then, did she look back at Charlie. She leaned close, her lips almost brushing his ear. Her voice dropped back into a private, vicious whisper. “Now pull up your pants, you embarrassing little bug. We’re leaving.”
She released his arm and walked away, not looking back, weaving through the crowd with the poise of a queen leaving a coronation. Charlie fumbled, his fingers numb and clumsy, yanking his underwear and trousers up over his aching, throbbing flesh. The fabric was agony. He fastened the belt with trembling hands, avoiding every single pair of eyes, and stumbled after her, the weight of a hundred silent stares pressing on his back like a physical force.