Cameron To Candy

The morning after the Literary Society meeting, Candy found Lady Eleanor in the sitting room, reading by the bay window. Sunlight streaked across the tea tray beside her, untouched.

Candy approached slowly, clutching a folded parchment.

“I signed it,” she said quietly, extending the paper. “The retroactive apology form. Can you... mail it for me?”

Lady Eleanor took the form with both hands, smoothing it over her lap with the kind of care one usually reserved for heirloom lace.

Then she looked up and smiled, not triumphantly or smugly, just... warmly.

“I’m glad we met here,” she said, resting one hand on Candy’s shoulder. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

The security side of the situation, Candy’s legal entanglements, her forced marriage, the uncertain path ahead, none of it was fixed. But this one moment, this one decision... it had been hers. Or, at least, mostly hers.

Lady Eleanor gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be all right.”

Later that day, as they wrapped up packing to leave, a quiet stir passed through the hallway. Mr. Elwood, an otherwise unflappable man, paused in front of a section of pieces hung on the wall by the stairwell. He squinted. Tilted his head. Stroked his chin. What was it...

“It’s off,” he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing. “It’s still off.”

Behind him, Eleanor passed without breaking stride. “We’ll bring in a specialist to reorganize dear.”

“Hmm,” he said, breaking away, “I suppose we can.”

By the time the carriage rolled up, Candy’s bottom was no longer throbbing like it had the day they arrived, but the bench was still firm enough to be a problem.

She lasted six minutes. Seven, maybe, if you counted the part where she pretended to stretch. Then she gave up and stood awkwardly in the swaying compartment, trying to balance like a drunk flamingo. It didn’t last. Her ankle wobbled, the carriage jostled, and she collapsed sideways into the floorboards with a loud, indignant grunt.

Marcus, half-dozing with his head against the window, cracked one eye open.

“Candy...”

“I know,” she groaned. “I know...”

He patted his lap.

“Just get up here.”

She scowled, got up, and flopped unceremoniously onto his lap. He wheezed a bit from the force, then his arms moved to encircle her, but she jabbed him in the side.

“No holding,” she muttered. “I’m bruised, not affectionate. You just need to... you know... stabilize me.”

“I am stabilizing you,” he said calmly. “That’s what arms do.”

She yawned. “Well, don’t get smug. I’m not falling asleep this time.”

“Of course.”

“I mean it. This time I'm staying awake.”

“Sure.”

Fifteen minutes later she was solidly asleep.

Marcus didn’t say a word. He just pulled her cloak higher around her shoulders, shifted a bit to relieve the weight on his thigh, and rested his chin on the top of her head. He enjoyed her scent. It was like the spell had gifted her a natural forever perfume, tailor-made for his liking. And in fact, something neither he nor Candy knew yet, it basically was.

No one had figured this out yet, but the spell that changed her still resided in her and actively made it so that she smelled ideal to everyone she was near. Marcus smelled her differently than, say, Greg or Vivian would have. Just a hint of lavender and sandalwood.

When the carriage reached the house, the driver cleared his throat outside the window. Candy’s eyes snapped open. She sat up, furious at herself. In her head, a quiet scream echoed like a curse hurled into the void.

Damn it. Why is his lap so... so flibidigibing comfortable?

She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to. Marcus smirked anyway.

That evening, after a long walk to clear her head and a longer bath, Candy stepped back into the house. She checked the Ministry ledger by the door. Her request had been processed and officially approved. She could now conduct the retroactive oral apology. She climbed the stairs two at a time, then paused, turned, and called down the hall.

“Marcus? Upstairs. Now, please.”

He came up slowly, wary. “Everything okay?”

She held up the parchment. “Your mom told me... about the horses. And the beach property. And how you already sold the cottage.”

He looked down. “Yeah. It’s been a lot.”

She nodded. “You said you were fine. That I didn’t need to worry. That I could keep my allowance, and the house would still be fine if we took the exception. But I checked the logs. The fines... they’ve been stacking up, more than I knew. I’m sorry, I should have listened to you more. I just thought you were being your notoriously cheap self.”

He shrugged. “We needed liquid capital. And realistically... You don’t understand how much the rest of your violations have been costing us.”

She winced. “I’ll try to do better.”

He nodded again, quietly. Neither of them pointed out the word try. But they both heard it.

“I can’t fix everything,” she said, “but this... I can do.”

She handed him the slip. “We’ll get most of it back. Four hundred gold.”

“Candy, no. That’s not necessary.”

“I know. And it helps a little, knowing that. But Marcus, you’ve sacrificed a lot for me.”

She looked him in the eyes. “We’ve both been hitting the ground running. Just... surviving. But that’s not enough. That’s not a marriage. Not the kind you deserve.” He didn’t interrupt. “You won’t have children,” she said. “You’ll never have a proper wife who cooks, who keeps a perfect little house. A wife who looks up at you like you’re the whole moon and sky.”

Her voice cracked.

“You won’t have sex whenever you want. You won’t have someone soft and docile and girlish the way Paddlewick says you should. No, I’m what you got stuck with, because you had your friend's back. I appreciate it. I should say it more, it’s just you… you have to be a friend and jailor, and it’s hard sometimes. But… but, I can’t let you give up your last properties and horses. At least not Hearthwind, you love that old mare. You need something to keep you going, too.”

"Oh, Candy, no, I..."

“Just go sit on the chair. And take your own damn pants off this time.”

He hesitated only a moment before walking to the chair and sitting after removing his pants. Not long after, she knelt slowly and used everything she had learned.

There was a small moment of hesitation, a mental check-in with herself. This is for me too, she reminded herself, this is control, as much as I’ll be given. Then she loosened her robe, letting her breasts be just visible enough. Next, she gripped his underwear, pulled back the fabric, and took in the sight, flinching for just a moment at his girth. That alone felt like growth.

She wrapped her hand around him first, warm and familiar. He was already half hard, which surprised her. I guess the exposed boobs do help, she thought.

She moved her hand and his shaft, gently rubbing until it was hard enough, exhaled once, then leaned in.

Her lips parted gently around him, and she began slowly, controlled, no gagging or dramatics. Just measured, practiced motion, bobbing rhythmically with one hand following her mouth in tandem. "Gods," she thought, "the taste, the feel. This is so much more disgusting than with Sircumsalot's glass shaft." But she pressed on, doing her best to dissociate. She employed the tongue swirl technique that Lady Grinna had shown her, added a hum she’d practiced, and when she dared a quick glance up, she saw Marcus’s eyes closed, mouth open slightly, his brow furrowing in stunned disbelief.

His hand touched her shoulder, then hovered, unsure whether to rest there or not. She didn’t stop.

“Candy,” he said, voice hoarse. “You don’t have to...”

She pulled back for just a second, catching his gaze. “I know. Shush!”

Then she went back to work, sliding her mouth lower this time, adjusting her jaw just like Sir Cumsalot had instructed. She felt him twitch involuntarily. Her lips sealed tighter, her movements fluid. Confident and Intentional.

She could hear her own breath through her nose, feel the tension building in his thighs, the tremble in his breath.

“Gods above...” he whispered.

When she sensed he was close, she braced herself. She wasn’t sure. Again, too late, he tried to signal her. At least she’d been anticipating it at that point. He’d have his own practice to do, she acknowledged, and she'd get even with him for the late notice.

He came with a sharp intake of breath, hand finally resting against her back. Candy hadn’t expected the level of rush; it filled her mouth too fast, too hot, and she gagged, reflexively swallowing some before she even realized. The rest she managed to hold, cheeks puffed, jaw trembling as she fought the urge to cough. She pulled back slowly, lips sticky, opened her mouth and spat into the container next to her. She then promptly took a swig of Paddlwicks highest proof Vodka.

Then she sat back on her heels and wiped the corner of her mouth with the edge of her thumb and finally looked up at him.

“That was...” Marcus was still catching his breath. “That was, uh... I mean, that was different than... er, it went better than… how, er, when did you learn that?”

Candy caught her breath and smirked. She stood, leaned toward his ear, and in her sweetest voice, answered, “Your mother taught me.”

Marcus blanched. “WHAT?!”

She then skipped toward the bath in exaggerated girlish fashion and waved over her shoulder.

“Oh, and yes, that’s 400 gold we’re getting back.”

She shut the door with a quiet click, leaving her husband in a full state of existential dread.

“Wait, Candy, tell me you were joking! Tell me!!” he yelled after her.

That night, Candy slept fairly soundly on her side of the bed, curled beneath the blankets with one foot poking out the way she liked. It has been a long day of travel, of contemplation, of doing things that disgusted her because she needed to, and because it was her choice, she was able to live with it, even if it had been a choice made between a rock and a (uhem) hard place.

Meanwhile, on Marcus’s side, he lay stiff as a board, the sheets pulled up to his chin like they were a shield protecting him from death in battle. His eyes were wide open. Staring at the ceiling, or past the ceiling, into the void.

He might never sleep again!