Chapter 1: A Royal Pantsing
The afternoon sun in the Naboo Royal Palace gardens was a forgiving gold, dappling through the whispering leaves of the willow trees. It was the kind of light that made everything seem softer, slower. The air hummed, thick with the scent of jasmine from blooming vines that snaked up marble colonnades, undercut by the clean, mineral smell of the golden lotus ponds.
Satine Kryze, Duchess of Mandalore, stood perfectly still before a rare hybrid orchid, her posture so straight it seemed to defy the lazy heat. Her pale blue eyes were narrowed in analytical focus, a strand of her striking blonde hair brushing a cheekbone. She was a study in composure, from the precise drape of her elegant white gown to the way her hands were clasped, knuckles white, behind her back.
“Fascinating cross-pollination,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “The nebula patterning is entirely unique.”
“Isn’t it just?”
The voice came from her left, a familiar melody of warmth and mischief. Satine didn’t have time to turn.
There was a swift, soft shush of fabric, a sudden tug at her hips, and then a shocking rush of cool air. Her meticulously fitted white gown was pooled around her ankles in a puddle of elegant fabric, leaving her standing in nothing but a pair of sophisticated, latte-colored lace underwear and the full glare of the Naboo sun.
Satine’s breath hitched. A single, sharp intake. Her eyes slammed shut for a half-second, then opened. She did not shriek. She did not scramble. She simply stared straight ahead at the orchid, her cheeks warming from more than just the sunlight.
“Really, Padmé?” she said, her voice remarkably level, a masterpiece of controlled exasperation. “In the middle of a diplomatic appraisal?”
Padmé Amidala stepped into her line of sight, a wicked smile playing on her lips. She twirled a single, liberated hairpin between her fingers. “The tension in your shoulders was ruining the aesthetic. Thought you needed a breeze.”
A stifled giggle, like the chime of a tiny bell, came from behind a nearby stone bench. Riyo Chuchi, the Pantoran senator, peeked out, her vibrant blue skin darkening with a violet blush. Her large amber eyes were wide, darting between Satine’s exposed backside and Padmé’s triumphant grin. She clapped both hands over her mouth.
“Senator Chuchi,” Satine said, not moving a muscle, her gaze still fixed on the flower. “Your opinion on the Cypripedium reginae is not currently required from behind that bench.”
“I’m so sorry, Duchess!” Riyo squeaked, emerging fully but keeping her eyes firmly on Satine’s face. “It’s just… you’re so… unflustered.”
“One develops a certain resilience,” Satine deadpanned. With glacial slowness, she bent at the knees—a precise, dignified squat—gathered the soft fabric of her gown, and stood, drawing it back up her body. The motion was seamless, almost ritualistic. She smoothed the front, not looking at Padmé. “The fastening, if you please.”
Padmé, still grinning, stepped behind her and slid the hairpin back into its concealed latch. “You’re no fun. Most people jump.”
“Most people lack the constant training for public humiliation that my social circle provides.”
Riyo finally approached, her curiosity overcoming her embarrassment. She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “What was that called? When Padmé pulled your dress down?”
Satine and Padmé exchanged a look. Satine’s was pure, weary warning. Padmé’s glittered with newfound opportunity.
“That, my dear Riyo,” Padmé said, slipping an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders, “is called a pantsing. Or, given the garment, a gownsing. A classic.”
“Pantsing,” Riyo repeated, tasting the word. “Is it a Naboo tradition?”
Padmé snorted. “It’s a universal tradition. A great way to… cut through political pretension.” She gave Riyo’s shoulder a squeeze. “Haven’t you ever gotten one?”
Riyo’s brow furrowed in thought. Her blue fingers twisted together. “Well… no? At home, on Pantora, if I was being too nosy or talking out of turn, my mother or father would just put me over their knee for a spanking. Or my sister would give me a yalin’s pinch on the arm. It was very clear. This… pantsing… it seems more…” She searched for the word, her amber eyes innocent. “Ambiguous.”
The silence that followed was profound. A lotus pod popped in the pond. Satine pinched the bridge of her nose.
“A spanking,” Padmé echoed, her voice filled with delighted horror. “As a standard correction?”
“Oh yes,” Riyo nodded, earnest. “It’s very normal. It gets the point across without hard feelings. Just last week, I was late submitting a tariff report and I asked Senator Orn Free Taa to administer a reminder spanking. He was very understanding about it.”
Satine looked as if she’d been slapped. “You asked a Hutt-separatist sympathizer to spank you over a tariff report.”
“It seemed efficient!” Riyo insisted, her blush returning. “He said it was the most straightforward request he’d had all term.”
Padmé was shaking with silent laughter, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Riyo, you are a treasure. An absolute treasure.” She wiped a tear away. “But we need to educate you on Core World mischief. Pantsing is just the start. There’s also the wedgie.”
“Wedgie?” Riyo’s head tilted like a curious bird.
“A foundational tactic.” Before Satine could issue a caution, Padmé’s hand shot out. It wasn’t aimed at Satine this time. With a quick, practiced motion, she hooked a finger into the waistband of Riyo’s elegant senatorial trousers—and pulled upwards, hard.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Riyo let out a tiny “Yip!” as the fabric cinched tightly between her buttocks, hiking her trousers up several inches in the back and causing her to rise onto her toes. The cute, patterned cotton of her underwear—covered in smiling, cartoonish moons—strained visibly against the taut material.
Riyo wobbled, her arms windmilling for balance. A giggle, pure and startled, burst from her lips. Then another. She stood there, tip-toed and ridiculously hitched, her face a portrait of violet confusion and bubbling mirth. “Oh! Oh, that’s… that’s very specific!”
“It gets the point across,” Padmé said, releasing the pressure with a soft snap. Riyo stumbled forward a step, her laughter subsiding into breathless hiccups as she clumsily tugged at the back of her trousers.
“Goodness,” Riyo breathed, still grinning helplessly. “It’s sort of silly-painful. Not like a proper spanking at all. More… embarrassing?”
“Now she gets it,” Satine muttered, finally turning away from the orchid.
“But why would you do that to someone you like?” Riyo pressed, readjusting her tunic.
“Because it’s funny,” Padmé said, as if explaining that the sky was blue. “And it reminds us not to take ourselves so seriously. Look at Satine. She just got pantsed in a royal garden. Is the galaxy ending? Is the trade federation mobilizing? No. She’s just a person who had her bottom briefly aired. It’s… liberating.”
“I would not use that word,” Satine said coolly.
Riyo considered this, her head cocked. The concept of playful, humiliating pranks as a form of stress relief was clearly alien, but she was trying to fit it into her worldview. “So it’s like a… a shared joke? With the… the victim being the punchline?”
“Exactly!” Padmé beamed. “And a good sport knows how to take it.”
“I see.” Riyo nodded slowly. Then a determined look settled on her features. She turned to face Satine fully, her hands on her hips. “Duchess Kryze.”
Satine raised a pale brow. “Senator Chuchi.”
“You are a very good sport. But Padmé pantsed you, and you didn’t even get a proper consequence. That seems unbalanced.” Riyo’s expression was one of deep, sincere concern. “It wasn’t a completed transaction. You should get a spanking.”
The garden fell silent again, save for the distant chime of celestial harps. Padmé’s jaw went slack. Satine’s icy composure finally cracked, showing a sliver of genuine, wide-eyed alarm.
“I… beg your pardon?” Satine managed.
“For the pantsing,” Riyo clarified, as if it were obvious. “To restore the balance. Then the joke is truly shared, and the stress is relieved for everyone. It’s only fair.” She gave a firm, decisive nod, her blue curls bouncing. “I insist.”
Padmé’s shock melted into a look of unadulterated, thrilling glee. She slowly turned her head to look at Satine, who was now staring at Riyo as if she’d just declared her intention to burn down the palace.
The momentum of the afternoon had irrevocably shifted. The serene garden held its breath, the willows ceasing their whisper, waiting to see how a Duchess of Mandalore would handle a Pantoran senator’s innocent, devastating sense of fairness.