Cameron To Candy

The correction bench was already waiting for her.

It always was. No matter the plaza, no matter the offense, Paddlewick’s benches stood ready; lacquered oak, velvet restraints, and a little brass plaque affixed to the side with the words Public Correction Station #3B. This one sat on the edge of Gooseberry Quad, nestled between a florist’s cart and a well-trafficked pastry stall. The smell of sugar and roses was sickeningly out of place.

Candy positioned herself as instructed, hands gripping the leather bars, posture forward, skirt unlifted, thank the gods, and face turned slightly away from the growing crowd. She heard footsteps, the occasional cough, the murmur of someone stopping just a few feet too close. Marcus stepped behind her.

“Ten by hand,” he said gently. “Twelve by paddle. You know the drill.”

She nodded. Her mouth felt like sawdust. The first slap landed with a dull smack.

“One, sir.”

Another. Sharper. Her skirt dulled the sting, but not the heat blooming in her cheeks, face and backside.

“Two, sir.”

By the third, she’d stopped trying to breathe normally. By the fifth, someone nearby muttered, “Poor thing,” and someone else answered, “Well, she did fling dessert on a ministry officer.”

“Seven, sir.”

She clenched her fingers. A mother’s voice reached her, soft and instructive. “See, sweetheart? That’s what happens when wives forget their manners.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Candy wanted to disappear.

“Nine, sir.”

She met eyes, just once, with a woman in a lilac bonnet. The woman gave her a sympathetic little nod. That I’ve-been-there-too look.

“Ten, sir.”

Marcus paused.

“Hold your position.”

The bench creaked faintly as he stepped back. She didn’t move.

The paddle was different; thicker, meaner in its way. There was a brief silence, the kind that always came before the first real thump, and then it struck.

“One sir!”

Harder. That was the only word for it. The cloth helped, yes, but not enough. Not nearly.

“Two, sir.”

Nearby, a man was explaining something to his son.

“See that? That’s the Swivelbrace method. Government-approved. Protects the wrist and gives even distribution across the target zone.”

“Wow,” the boy said, clearly just old enough to have his own opinions about “target zones.”

“Five, sir.”

She stared straight ahead. Focused on the bricks. Not the mother with her daughters. Not the smirking baker. Not the teenage boy whose eyes were glued to her cleavage, which jiggled with every swat.

“Seven, sir.”

Almost done. Almost. This was starting to really sting.

“Nine, sir.”

A few more murmurs. Someone snickered.

“Twelve, sir!” she yelped out.

Silence.

She stayed still, just as trained, until Marcus gave her the instruction, “You may rise.”

Candy stood stiffly, turned, and curtsied with practiced grace. “Thank you for correcting me, sir.”

A few polite claps. A whistle. Then the stationed guard stepped forward, waving the spectators along. “Alright folks, correction’s over. Clear it out.”

The crowd dispersed like nothing had happened. Marcus walked beside her in silence, his hand gently on her back.

They didn’t speak for most of the walk home. Candy’s steps were slow, but steady. She winced now and then, twenty-two swats was a number you felt. Her pride ached worse than her backside, though. She had nearly tasted justice, nearly walked away from the night victorious. And then Paddlewick, in all its smug, bureaucratic cruelty, reminded her exactly where she stood.

Marcus finally broke the silence as they approached the cottage.

“Well,” he said, flatly. “We’re screwed.”

Candy gave a dry laugh with no humor in it. “We’ve got till tomorrow night, right?”

“Twenty-four hours. But yeah.” He glanced at her, then away. “I suggest we just… get it over with. Tonight.”

She didn’t argue. “Fine. Doesn’t matter. I just need some time.”

“Sure. I need to make a call anyway. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

She disappeared into the cottage, head held high.

Marcus entered behind her, stepping into the study and locking the door. The soft glow of the magic mirror flickered on the wall—oval, brass-trimmed, and faintly humming with energy. He cleared his throat and muttered the incantation.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

A trusted friend I wish to call.

Bring his face within your glow

Owen’s counsel I must know.”

A soft bell rang, like a tiny cathedral chime. After a few pulses, the mirror rippled like water kissed by moonlight, then shimmered to life. Owen’s face appeared, clear as day, his blond hair damp from a recent shower, his collared shirt still crisp.

“Marcus!” Owen smiled. “Been a while.”

“Yeah,” Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. Things’ve been… busy.”

“I’ll bet. An arranged marriage to a trouble-girl?” Owen chuckled. “Hard work, taming one like that.”

Marcus let out a humorless breath. “You have no idea.”

Owen nodded. “We really gotta get together next month. Let’s hit a bar. The Worn Paddle? Don’t be the guy who drops off the map once he gets married.”

“You’re right. I’ll make it happen.”

Owen’s tone softened. “Good. But I’m guessing you didn’t call just to catch up.”

“No.” Marcus straightened. “I need a favor.”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Marcus explained the incident, Candy’s stumble, the desserts flying, the overzealous ministry boy barely old enough to shave. How he insisted on public correction for an obvious accident.

Owen shook his head. “Gods. If it were me, I’d just feel bad she lost dessert. Maybe give her a warning and move on.”

“Exactly.”

“But,” Owen added reluctantly, “I don’t have the report in front of me, and I’m not top brass. Just from what I know… he was within his rights.”

Marcus frowned. “You serious?”

“Technically, yeah. Look, just because most of us wouldn’t doesn’t mean it was illegal. And Candy’s marked as a trouble-girl. That sticks.”

Marcus stiffened.

Owen held up a hand. “I’m not creeping. I looked at her file once, curiosity, alright? Since I’d never met her. Anyway, she’s racking up fines. Her obedience metrics are low. If you challenged this, they’d throw that in your face.”

Marcus exhaled slowly. “So that’s it?”

“No.” Owen leaned closer. “What he did was petty. But I can be petty too. Within the law.”

Marcus blinked. “Really?”

Owen shrugged. “It’s not my usual style. But I’ll do it for a friend. Sounds like the kids from J Company. His supervisor owes me a favor. I’ll have him washing benches and scrubbing latrine basins for a month.”

Marcus let out a short, relieved laugh. “Make it two.”

Owen smirked. “You got it.”

They both saluted. “Thanks, Owen.”

“Good night, soldier.”

The mirror rippled and cleared, leaving only Marcus’ own weary reflection staring back at him. He exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and turned toward the stairs.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “let’s do this.”

Upstairs, he entered their shared room and silently walked to the chair. He sat down heavily, unbuckled his trousers, and cast them aside. He left the boxers in place; he always did, even now, and waited.

Candy entered moments later, wrapped in a robe. Her face was pale, her eyes distant. She didn’t speak at first.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Marcus said softly.

“I know,” she replied. “No talking. Just… I don’t know. Close your eyes. Tell me in advance this time. Seriously.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She stepped closer, her hands slow, uncertain. She reached for the waistband and pulled it down. What she saw made her flinch, not in shock, but in frustration. The damn thing was generous. Seriously, had it grown since last time? Still more notable were his balls. They were huge; swollen.

Gods, she thought, he must be sore all the time. She almost felt bad about it. If he’d had a proper wife, one trained, one who accepted this crap, he’d be getting serviced regularly. But no. He got her. A legal woman, with no vagina and the soul of a man who wanted nothing to do with others dicks, especially not this one.

She reached forward, steady hands on the base. She held it for a moment, thinking. How did I do this last time? What worked? Should I lower my top? Seeing boobs speeds this up, right? Well, in a normal marriage they would.

After a moment, she finally leaned in.

Then stopped. Pulled back. She shook her head, then tried again. And again she found herself stopping.

“No,” she said suddenly, standing straight. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Marcus sighed, relief and guilt swirling together. “Yeah. I can’t either.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment.

Marcus sighed. “If we don’t,” he said finally, “they’ll notice. It’s a formal correction. If the ministry doesn’t see confirmation, they’ll escalate. Might say I can’t control you. They might reassign you.”

Candy’s voice cracked. “You’d think… they’d give an exception. I mean, I’m me. They’ve arranged other things. I’m under a level four seal for Viridicus' sake!”

He nodded. “We have a meeting with them in a few months. Maybe then. But right now...”

She took a breath. “Do you think I can just use my hand?”

“Only if you're injured or sick.”

“I have been feeling hot today. Maybe we just check my temperature first. Just in case?

“Uh, Candy, do you remember where women get their temperatures checked?”

“Where? What do you OH. Crap. I, I forgot. Yeah no, not worth it… Actually, there is one other option. I looked it up. First oral’s mandatory, but after that… there’s a once-a-year exemption. It’s just, well, it’s costly.”

“How costly?”

“Five hundred gold.”

Marcus inhaled so sharply he nearly swallowed his lungs. “Five hundred? That’s everything. I only have six hundred in the bank. And it's been draining fast!”

“I know. But don’t cheap out on this one. Please.”

He rubbed his face. “When you don’t have a job, there aren’t a lot of options.”

Candy nodded. “I, well, Cameron has stocks. And access. Maybe… maybe I could send you something. Frame it like a gift. Thanks for marrying my cousin. Something like that. The ministry won't object as long as it’s believable.”

Marcus stared. “Wait. You have stocks? You mean, Drapeville stocks? Those are worth nearly 50 gold a share! How do you have those?”

She gave him a flat look. “An unusual courier saved my life and talked me into it. It’s a long story. One we can have another time when your dick’s not out.”

He blinked, glanced down. “Right. Yeah. Clothes. Let’s… have this conversation with clothes.”

He pulled up his boxers. Candy handed him the ministry handbook, a bookmarked page already waiting.

“Read.”

He scanned it. “Yeah. Here. One exemption per year. Five hundred gold. Publicly logged.”

“They won’t announce it,” she said quickly. “Just filed. Buried.”

He closed the book, staring into nothing.

“You really want this?” he asked.

“I don’t want this,” Candy snapped. “I want to not vomit tonight.”

He closed his eyes. “Fine. You’ll get it, but you need to know we will never be able to afford this again. This is your only exception. Ever. Next time, and you know that’s inevitable, we’ll have to go through with it. And I need to give this on condition.”

Candy’s brow furrowed, but she listened. “No more fines. Not anything we can avoid anyway. We go to cheap meats. A pauper’s diet. But most importantly, and I need to stress this,” he said, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, “You’re going to have to start taking my lead more. Make following me more instinctive when we are in town, say yes sir unsarcastically once in a while. Maybe do a little extra, like the Greeting Ritual once a month. Can you do that?”

Candy looked down and considered this. Her face flickered between emotions of doubt, disgust, fear. “Yes,” she whispered, finally. “I can try.”

“Yes what?” he asked, bumping her with his shoulder playfully.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes sir.”

He laughed lightly. “That’s the spirit.”

“I’m sorry I got us into this with the chocolates.”

“It’s not your fault. Jackass ministry kid.” He gave a weak smile. “I’ll file the paperwork.”

She nodded. “I’m taking a bath.”

He watched her leave. Alone again, he sat back down. He pulled out his scry pad. Filled out the exemption form. Entered the payment. The money drained from his account like blood from a wound. Then he opened his portfolio.

“Guess I’m selling the horses,” he said softly. “And maybe more.”

But this, well, this was worth it. A tiny measure of dignity for Candy, and, if he was honest, a deep, bone-shaking relief for himself. He really hadn’t wanted to cum in his best friend’s mouth, even if his balls were a bit blue.

Three days later, two things of note happened.

The first was at precisely seven o’ three in the Ministry of Domestic Regulation’s eastern quad office, where one Junior Enforcement Clerk Jasper Spindlewhack arrived at his desk to find… it missing.

More accurately, it was there, physically present, drawers and all but there was a small pink envelope on top. Ministry pink. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that gave orders.

He opened it.

Assignment: Reinstated to probationary field duty. Latrine Sanitation Division. Effective immediately. Duration: open-ended. Orders: report to Quad 6 Supplies, retrieve tools, proceed to South Park Benches for initial assessments.

Jasper blinked.

“What the actual spank,” he muttered.

This was rookie work. Fresh uniform work. Work you did before you got a desk. He’d passed his enforcement practicum with distinction. He’d been praised for his wrist-flick consistency. And now he was being told to go buff the seating slabs near the wild geese?

A secretary passed by, humming softly.

“You there,” Jasper barked. “Excuse me. Can you verify this?”

The woman paused, offered a bland professional smile. “Sir?”

“My assignment,” he snapped. “It’s—someone’s made an error.”

She glanced down. “That’s a pink slip, sir.”

“Yes, I know—”

“And it’s signed by Under-Marshall Glint.”

His mouth shut. Slowly.

She gave a tiny shrug. “It came through the override channel. Wouldn’t know the reason.”

“…Right,” he said flatly. “Wouldn’t know.” She started to leave. Jasper stared at the pink envelope again.

Wouldn’t know…

Except maybe…

Except maybe he did know. That husband. That older man. What was his name? Elwood something. With that wife… the one with the desserts. He’d gotten mouthy. “You’re drunk on your power,” he’d said. And then, you haven’t heard the last of this.

Jasper swallowed hard.

“…Gludge,” he muttered. And went to find a scrub brush.

The second thing arrived over breakfast.

A letter, on expensive cardstock, with a soft blue wax seal stamped with the Elwood family crest. Marcus opened it with the grace of a man halfway through his first coffee and already regretting the day. Candy, across from him, was focused on slathering toast with something suspiciously fruity. Marcus read. Then blinked.

“Oh gludge,” he muttered.

“What?” Candy looked up, mouth full.

“It’s from my mother.”

Candy made a small noise of dismay. “Is she dead?”

“No.”

“Is someone dead?”

“No.”

“…Then why are you pale?”

Marcus handed her the note. She read it quickly.

My dearest Marcus and Candy,

I do hope the both of you are well. We would be delighted to have you join us this weekend at the Elwood cottage in Paddlewick Minor. Just a simple family gathering. A touch of nature, a bit of supper, a proper conversation.

With warmth,

Lady Eleanor Henrietta Elwood

There was a polite little bow curl at the end of the signature. The kind that meant this is not a request.

Candy stared at the page. Then at Marcus.

“…What do you think this is about?”

Marcus hesitated. Then nodded once, slowly. “She knows.”

Candy’s stomach dropped. “Knows?”

“The exemption. Oral apology. You didn’t do it. It gets logged.”

Candy groaned. “She read the public logs?”

“She always reads the logs.”

“Who the hell reads the ministry logs for dessert-based accidents?”

“My mother.”

Candy put her toast down, nauseated.

Marcus folded the letter and tucked it away. “She wants to talk. Woman to woman.”

“Oh gods. About… ugh… blow jobs?

Marcus hesitated, disgusted by the prospect of having to talk about his mother and blow jobs in the same conversation, but he had to say it. “Yeah. I’d bet so.”

Candy’s face contorted into something awful at the thought.

“…oh, Gludge.”