Cameron To Candy

Candy had no idea when this became normal. Oh, she knew when it started, but when did they accept that it was really a thing? Once a week, like clockwork, Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, rolled up his sleeves, and waited for her to crawl over his lap like some obedient housewife.

And every week, Candy hated it. Not just the spanking itself, which was awful, but the entire ritual of it. The humiliating expectation. The forced submission. The fact that Marcus had to do this to “prove” he was fulfilling his husbandly duties.

It was ridiculous. It was infuriating. And tonight, it was going to hurt. She’d just survived a public correction two days ago. Ten warm-up swats by hand, then twelve with the paddle. Those left bruises. And all because she’d tripped. That was it. Tripped. Chocolate went flying, and some puffed-up ministry brat acted like she’d committed treason. Marcus tried to talk him down, but the little punk had to throw his weight around, and laws were laws.

Marcus petitioned the Ministry to waive this week’s maintenance. They granted a three-day postponement. That was all. Not wanting to do it at his parents’ house, they agreed to get it over with today, day two of the delay, before traveling tomorrow. So here she was. Again.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Candy muttered, a phrase she was getting way too comfortable with. She dragged her feet toward him, sulking. Marcus sighed.

"You could at least pretend you respect the process."

Candy snorted. "That’s asking a lot."

Marcus grunted, “Yeah, I guess it is on this one.”

Candy lowered herself over his lap, resting her forearms against the mattress, her face burning with frustration. She hated this position. It made her feel too vulnerable, too exposed, too much like Paddlewick’s perfect little housewife. But resisting only made things worse.

Marcus lifted her dress, folding it up neatly. Her backside, now familiar to him, still caught his eye. The shape was frustratingly perfect, round, high, that soft peach silhouette that looked like an artist with an inclination toward symmetry had drawn it. A few faint bruises lingered from the public correction, mottled just along the lower curves.

He placed a hand on her lower back, fingers resting in the narrow dip between her hips, tracing the edge of her cursed hourglass shape as he held her in place.

"Ready?"

"No."

"Well… here we go anyway."

The first swat landed. Candy flinched. She almost forgot herself before barking out, “One Sir!”

Then another, and another. The familiar sting spread across her skin, heat blooming too quickly—

"OW! NOT SO HARD!"

Marcus paused.

"I’m literally going as easy as I’m allowed."

Candy glared over her shoulder. "Easy for you! My ass disagrees!"

Marcus furrowed his brow. "But, you knew this was coming."

"Yeah, but knowing doesn’t make it hurt less!"

Marcus sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, clearly trying to stay calm. “Okay, that’s fair. But—”

“‘Oh, don’t bring up butts now!”

“Candy...” he groaned, “just stop arguing and take your spanking like an adult.”

She twisted to glare. “Say that sentence out loud again and tell me how sane it sounds.”

Marcus ignored her and resumed. She grumbled, kicked her feet, and mumbled a string of obscenities into the blanket. Most of them were creatively hyphenated.

Finally, she was at the last swat. “Twenty SIR!” She creid out, breath heavy, eyes misty. She’d thought about using her safe word, but she’d made it through. She rolled off his lap with a hiss, hands already cupping her stinging cheeks.

“You’re pretty heavy-handed for someone who claims to hate this,” she muttered.

Marcus leaned back, rubbing his own wrist. “I do hate it. You think I like seeing you wince every time you sit down?”

“Well, congratulations,” she said, flopping face-first onto the sofa. “We’re both miserable.” Marcus' face suddenly lit up, then he coughed, in that way that signaled she was forgetting something.

"Huh, oh, what?" she asked, annoyed.

"You forgot to thank me."

"Oh for the love of the gods... er, thank you for maintaining me, Sir," she spat out, dipping into a half assed curtsey. "Happy now?"

He hesitated, then said, “Hey... I know this was a lot. But you agreed to start taking my lead more. Can that start now, please?”

Candy huffed, sitting up gingerly, still scowling.

“It’ll start when my butt has enough time to de-bruise.”

Marcus looked awkward and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You know what would be great?” she added.

“What?”

“If we just... didn’t do this. Ever again.”

Marcus snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bring that up with the law next time I see it.”

Candy groaned and flopped back onto the sofa. “I hate Paddlewick.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.”

“Hey, we can still defect. How do you feel about Plumpudding?” she asked, jokingly.

“The foodie nation-state? You think you, who once burned a salad, could survive Plumpudding?” Marcus asked, bursting into laughter.

“Oh, haha... fair point though. Anyway, I’m off to bed. It's already late, and I want to be well-rested when I have an awkward blow-job related conversation with your mom tomorrow.”

Marcus’s laughter stopped instantly.

“Er... yes. Well, the carriage will be here at eight. Be ready. Goodnight.” He turned and made his way to the desk, clearly eager to end the conversation.

Candy huffed, rubbed her backside dramatically, and limped toward the bedroom.

“If Paddlewick sends another minister after me tonight, you handle it. I’m done.”

She disappeared down the hall, muttering something about burned butts and monarchy-induced trauma.

Marcus waited. Listened. He stepped lightly to the stairwell and leaned just enough to hear. The bedroom door clicked shut.

Only then did he return to his desk, pulling a small brass key from his pocket. He unlocked the top drawer slowly, glancing once toward the stairs. The drawer creaked open. Inside was a slim, glossy magazine, carefully wedged between a tax form and The Domestic Conduct Codex: Volume Three.

He took it out, settled into his chair, automin in place, and with a small, barely perceptible smile, opened it to the first page...

“A Long Story”

The steam curled lazily toward the high ceiling of the bathhouse, carrying the faint scent of lavender and hot stone. Alyssa lounged on the marble bench at the edge of the pool, robe draped loosely about her shoulders, a delicate porcelain cup in hand. She sipped her water as if it were the rarest wine, pinky extended in perfect form.

Across from her, Candy and Vivian sat half-submerged, watching her in silence. Or, more precisely, watching the absence above her right eye.

Alyssa, for her part, was the picture of composure — raven hair pinned neatly up, one flawless dark brow arched in its usual haughty curve… and the other side bare as polished marble. Genuinely zero eyebrow was there. She hadn’t mentioned it. She didn't look as though she planned to mention it.

Candy exchanged a glance with Vivian.

“So…” Candy began.

Alyssa glanced over the rim of her cup. “So?”

Candy tilted her head. “Are you going to tell us? Or are you really going to make us ask?”

“Ask what, Candy?” Alyssa’s tone was pure silk, her single brow arching higher. The look was a challenge. Go on. Say it.

Vivian sighed. “All right, I’m just going to go for it. Alyssa, what happened to your eyebrow?”

“Oh, that.” Alyssa set her cup down with delicate precision, leaned back, and crossed her ankles. “It’s… a long story.”

---

Alyssa fitted the final piece of the device, aimed, pulled the trigger, and —

SNAP.

The Stasis Lantern roared to life with a blinding blue flash, a plume of frost exploding outward. Alyssa froze in place, quite literally, skirts welded to the table’s edge, a rime of ice crusting over her hair.

An assistant was shouting something about “coil calibration,” but she could barely hear him over the brittle crackle of her frozen dress. She reached up and a chunk of eyebrow came away between her fingers.

Up in the balcony, King Roderick rubbed his temples. “Chisel the girl free,” he ordered. "Carefully!"

---

Candy and Vivian exchanged a look, knowing they’d have to drag it out of her, and already half-suspecting the tale would be messier and far funnier than she’d ever admit.