Cameron To Candy

The carriage Marcus rented was the cheapest one available that didn’t actively smell like cabbage. It was old. It was open-air. The paint had peeled from the corners, and the seat cushions had long since given up their dreams of padding anything. Every bump in the road was a personal insult to Candy’s backside, already sore from a public correction three days earlier and then another maintenance spanking the night before.

She shifted again, trying her fourth sitting position in as many minutes. “Gludge,” she muttered.

Marcus eyed her. “You alright?”

“No. I'm dying! My butt is actively trying to detach itself from my body. You couldn’t spring for one of the fancy padded carriages?”

Marcus looked offended. “We just dropped five hundred gold on your dignity. We are poor, Candy. This is the life we live now.”

She grumbled something unintelligible, then attempted to stand, only to stumble when the carriage hit a curve. She flailed, bonked her head on the side rail, and fell back with a yelp.

Marcus winced. “That’s gonna bruise.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, no, we’ll cover it with your hair, but we can’t have you showing up to my parents’ place looking like you got rolled down a cliff.”

“I feel like I got rolled down a cliff,” she snapped. “This is hell.”

He patted his thigh. “Come here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“Candy, you’re going to arrive bruised, limping, and pissed. You want my mom asking questions?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“When you do, great. Until then—” He reached down, scooped her up, and plopped her firmly in his lap.

“Marcus!” she yelped.

“Sorry, I’m pulling rank.”

She sputtered. “This is disgusting.”

“It’s just awkward. We'll live. Don't be a drama queen.” Her eyes bulged, and she turned and looked up with a murderous look. He quickly held up a hand.

"It's just an expression. It had nothing to do with your transformation!" he backpeddled quickly.

She grumbled, then tried wriggling off, but another sharp turn jostled the carriage, and she nearly toppled again. His arms came up to steady her instinctively.

“Do not hold me,” she growled.

“Hey, you promised to take my lead more, remember? And I have to steady you.”

“You really don’t—”

Another bump. This time, she grabbed his vest to stay upright.

“Fine,” she growled. “Just no more than you have to.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Marcus muttered.

Not ten minutes later and she was out cold, face softly buried in his chest. Marcus chuckled. All that protest… and now this.

He looked down at her, really looked for the first time in a while. The dress Vivian loaned her was crushed from travel, but still absurdly feminine, lace-trimmed, pastel-toned, with a neckline that made Marcus keep his eyes on the road whenever she stood. She’d brought it to impress his mother. Likewise, her hair, styled that morning by Alyssa, was curled softly around her face. She smelled faintly of lilac and rose, though she never wore perfume.

It was the spell. The damn transformation spell had gone hard, feminizing her nearly completely. It had made her beautiful, delicate, and so much smaller. She was only 5'4" now, and weighed about as much as one of his saddlebags.

He remembered what she’d looked like before… and how close she'd come to being handed off to someone crueler. Someone who would’ve treated her like property in more than just the legal sense.

She was still Cameron, somewhere in there. Still sharp-tongued, sarcastic, infuriating. Which is why he sometimes forgot how small and vulnerable she was now. But asleep like this, she was so peaceful, fragile… beautiful.

His arms tightened around her for a moment. He let himself pretend. Pretend she was really his wife, that she was fully a woman, and not his feminized best friend. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that. Just for a moment. And then… she snorted loudly. A string of drool decorated her blouse and, unfortunately, his shirt.

The spell of sentiment broke instantly. Marcus barked a laugh. Just in time, too, because the carriage slowed to a halt. They had arrived.

He nudged her gently. “Candy. We’re here.”

No response.

He tried again. “Hey. Wake up!”

Still nothing.

Finally, he leaned close and hissed, “Cameron.”

She jerked awake. “Huh? What? Who’s dying?”

And that was exactly the moment Lady Eleanor Henrietta Elwood opened the carriage door. She blinked once.

And then squealed. “Ohhhh, you’re both just darling!”

Marcus paled. “Wait, Mother, it’s not—”

“Oh, hush,” she said, waving a hand. “I used to ride in your father’s lap on long carriage rides, too. Don’t be embarrassed cutie,” she said, looking at Candy. “Come up to the house whenever you’re ready!”

She turned and swanned away, humming.

Candy, still drooping against Marcus, muttered darkly into his collar, “Kill me now.”

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Lady Eleanor took Candy gently by the wrist and steered her toward the back garden. “Girl talk,” she said briskly. “It’s needed.” Candy shot Marcus a look that said don’t you dare leave me, but all he could do was shrug with an apologetic half-smile. The look he gave her said exactly what she feared: What do you want me to do? It’s my mother. Even in Paddlewick, boys didn’t sass their mothers.

They were served chilled rosemilk in the east garden, where the summer hedges were in full bloom and the bees moved politely between blossoms, as if even the insects at the Elwood estate understood the value of decorum. Lady Eleanor looked lovely as ever in her corseted riding dress, the neckline generous enough to make Candy feel like a tavern napkin. She let the first few sips pass in silence.

"You're hair looks nice," she said, finally.

"Thank you," Candy replied, smiling as much as she could muster.

They fell back into silence for another moment that seemed to stretch on for eternity.

“I know you used your exemption,” Lady Eleanor said at last. Candy flinched, the glass of rosemilk halfway to her lips. “You had every right, of course. The law is clear. But I worry you may not have understood what it would cost him.”

“I... I knew it was expensive,” Candy said, though it sounded more like a question than a defense.

“He’s selling the lake cottage,” Eleanor said gently. “And the Beltforge mares. You know how much those meant to him, not just financially.”

Candy stared at her lap.

“I didn’t mean to... I just...”

“You weren’t ready,” Eleanor said softly. “And that’s understandable. I know it was a forced marriage.” Candy looked up, surprised.

“I was very proud of Marcus when we heard of the wedding,” Eleanor continued. “My only regret is that the circumstances did not allow us to attend, but I understand. Sometimes these things happen behind closed doors. At any rate... I know you didn’t choose him.”

Candy hesitated, then nodded. “To tell you the truth... I’m, well, I'm not actually attracted to Marcus. No offense, ma’am.”

Lady Eleanor took a slow sip of her rosemilk. A flicker of something passed over her face, maybe disappointment, but she only nodded.

“It’s no slight,” she said. “Many wives are paired with men who aren’t their type. Attraction is a luxury for the lucky; the rest simply get on with things.”

Candy looked back at her hands. “He’s not my type physically. That’s all.”

“Of course,” Eleanor said, her voice calm. “You’re not trained. You’re not attracted to him. You weren’t prepared. But all of that... will have to be put aside because there will be a next time. And you won’t be able to afford it again.”

Candy gave the barest nod. Eleanor reached into her reticule and produced a folded piece of paper.

“If you’d like to embrace that reality now, you can still file this. Retroactive apology. Oral, of course. You’d recover four hundred of the gold. It won’t undo the sale of the horses, but it would help. And I can tell, even with all the issues, you care for my son. You already know so much about him, his past, his habits, even his moods. And you trust him enough to fall asleep in his lap. There's closeness there.”

Candy’s throat tightened. She did know Marcus. She’d known him since they were boys, but Lady Eleanor thought it was wifely intuition and romantic bonding, not the remnants of a friendship the law was erasing.

“Love often blooms from such fertile soil. Not always, but I think there’s promise here.” Eleanor let the words hang, then stood, a small, hopeful smile curving her lips.

‘Well. Think about what I’ve said.” She paused at the door. “And by the way, dear, you’ll be attending the local chapter of the Literary Society with me tonight.”

Candy blinked. “Oh... I haven't done the reading.”

Eleanor waved that off with a wry smile. “Oh, that won’t matter. You’ll see.”

The carriage ride from the Elwood estate to the Literary Society’s Paddlewick-Minor chapter was mercifully short, though not short enough for Candy’s nerves to settle. She had dressed modestly, assuming they'd be discussing essays or maybe obscure moral novels. But as they arrived at a warmly lit manse trimmed with brass ivy and lace curtains, Lady Eleanor turned toward her with that knowing, unreadable smile that never boded well.

They were greeted at the door by a silver-haired woman in a rose-colored blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons and an aura of gleeful discretion.

“Lady Eleanor!” the woman said, kissing her on both cheeks. “So good to see you.

"And you dear," Eleanor replied. "Tell me. Has Sir Cumsalot been procured?”

“Oh yes,” the hostess answered with a gleam in her eye. “With plenty of extra pudding cartridges.”

The Lady Eleanor laughed softly. “Excellent. I remember training with him at the Academy. Decades ago. He’s very responsive.”

Candy blinked. “I’m sorry... did someone just say... circumcised-a-lot?”

The hostess chuckled. “Sir Cumsalot, dear. It's an enchanted oral devotion training dummy. One of the better models. Fully calibrated, smooth glass shaft, gives feedback, and positively brims with encouragement. Sir CumSized resides in Petalik's wife academy, I believe.”

Candy opened her mouth again, then closed it. No words were going to help.

They were shown into the parlor, which smelled faintly of almond cake and treacle wax. Six women were already seated, some with embroidery hoops, others sipping cordial with the practiced poise of women who enjoyed watching chaos unfold. The floor was velveted, the furniture plush, and a crackling hearth cast warm light across a low velvet chaise in the center.

Behind it stood a wooden training dummy on a polished rod-mount, enchantment gleaming beneath the lacquer. It was lifelike in the worst possible ways, complete with enchanted eyes and an anatomical feature so proudly exaggerated it demanded modesty just to look at it.

The hostess turned to Candy, voice pleasant and formal. “Welcome to the Literary Society, Paddlewick-Minor chapter. I’m Lady Munselgrave, the current facilitator. That’s Lady Grinna over there, needlepointing the saints... and to her left is Miss Claybell, who once published a devotional poetry series under a pseudonym that shall remain mercifully unspoken.”

A couple of women offered polite waves. One nodded encouragingly over the rim of her wineglass.

“And you,” Lady Munselgrave continued, eyes twinkling, “are here because Lady Eleanor tells us you’re ready to refine your technique.”

Candy blinked. “My... technique?”

“Yes,” said Lady Munselgrave with a beatific smile. “Your oral technique.”

Candy made a small, strangled noise in the back of her throat.

“Don’t worry,” the hostess added gently. “No judgments here. We’ve all been through it. The only difference is whether we learned on the fly... or learned properly.”

Candy looked toward the chaise. “You all trained with that?”

“Of course,” said Lady Grinna brightly. “Some of us trained with the older models. They didn’t even blink. Oh but I hear they’ve got a new generation coming to the Paddlewick Prime Wives Academy. My oldest is set to attend next semester, actually. I look forward to hearing what improvements they’ve added.”

Before Candy could process the idea of Laddy Grinna discussing oral devotion training dummies with her own daughter, Lady Eleanor stepped forward, removing her gloves with calm precision. “I’ll demonstrate first. Unfortunately,” she said with a slight scowl, “The ladies insisted I lead by example before they’d help train you.”

“We did!” came the singsong chorus from the wives, some already sipping more wine.

Eleanor knelt smoothly before the dummy. Sir Cumsalot blinked once.

“Good evening, madam,” he said in a warm baritone. “Ready when you are.”

“I’m here to offer penance,” Eleanor replied, almost tenderly.

And then she began, fluidly, confidently, and with frankly terrifying grace. Every motion was poised, unhurried, and deliberate. There was nothing awkward in her manner, no clumsy fumbling. Even the way she cupped the dummy's base was dignified, practiced... elegant. She bobbed her head up and down with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly how to make a grown man forget his name.

Candy, well, Cameron, had known Lady Eleanor for years. Marcus was her best friend. He'd dined at their house, she'd attended their sports contests in school - she was like a firm Aunt to him. He'd never thought of her like this. She wasn't the hot mom who washed the carriage in the driveway in a knee-high dress. This was... weird. So weird.

The dummy began to shudder, its hips giving the faintest magical twitch. The enchanted ejaculation burst forward, a stream of thick, warm pudding spurting through the shaft. The stream coated her tongue, and her cheeks bulged. She pulled back, removing her mouth from the shaft without spilling a drop, and held her mouth open slightly, letting the dummy observe the presentation.

“Very good,” Sir Cumsalot said. “You may swallow.”

She did so without hesitation, dabbed the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief, and rose to a round of applause.

Lady Munselgrave clapped with delight. “Had that been with your husband, dear, you would’ve earned a retention pin.”

“Oh, I earned all the variants long ago,” Eleanor said with a wink. Candy was just gawking, jaw forever dropped at this point.

One of the other wives leaned in toward Candy and whispered, “Don’t worry about hitting that level of mastery tonight. Your mother-in-law’s just showing off.”

“Lady Eleanor gave a mild smile. “Anything worth doing,” she said, “is worth doing amazingly… That was tapioca, though. Not my favorite, I must say.” Eleanor noted.

Lady Grinna laughed. “Closest match to the real thing.”

“We tested all the samples,” added Miss Claybell.

“I still think rice pudding would've been kinder,” someone muttered.

“Accuracy matters,” Lady Munselgrave declared with pride. “It's a training dummy, not a dessert.”

“Of course it’s dessert! That’s the point. A reward for the job!” Miss Claybell countered.

“Anyhow, “ Eleanor interjected, loudly, interrupting the spiral into oral madness, “I will now take my leave. No one wishes to learn this sort of thing from their mother-in-law.”

With that, she stepped aside, hands folded, lips curved just slightly at the edges. Five wives leaned forward as one.

“Your turn, dear,” one of them purred.

Candy did not move. Her soul was attempting to exit her body.