Cameron To Candy

The instructor, Madam Gloriana Spinestra Whipcott, paced slowly before them, heels clicking with intent.

“Each of you will be assigned a scenario,” she said. “Respond as trained.” She stopped. “Elwood. Candice.” Candy stood and stepped forward. “Scenario,” the instructor said. “You pass a Ministry guard on a civic street.”

Candy didn’t hesitate. She executed a clean Tier One Flick-Dip; spine straight, eyes lowered briefly as she dipped, expression neutral, controlled. No pause too long. No smile. Then back up. The instructor nodded once.

“Depth appropriate. Timing correct. No affectation.”

Candy returned to her place. She watched the next girl take her turn, then the next. As they did, Candy adjusted her posture for what felt like the tenth time since sitting down. The way women sat was designed with an unspoken assumption about bodies, about how legs were meant to cross or tuck or fold neatly out of the way. She had to slide one leg over the other at an angle that pressed uncomfortably against the anatomy the transformation spell had reduced but not erased. It was the sort of position women around her adopted without thinking, knees angled just so, weight distributed cleanly. For Candy, it required constant awareness and a low, simmering irritation that she wasn't always aware of, but she could never fully shake.

“Thimblewhip, Beatrix,” the instructor said. “Same scenario.”

Beatrix took a breath, stepped forward, and began a flick-dip. She dipped. She dipped further. Her heel slid. Her balance wavered. She windmilled once, caught herself, dipped again out of sheer momentum, and ended in something that might generously be called a curtsey-adjacent bow.

Silence.

Beatrix froze. “I… respected him extra?”

The instructor stared at her.

“That,” she said carefully, “was a Tier One beginning followed by a Tier Three collapse.”

“Oh,” Beatrix said. “I always overshoot.”

Candy closed her eyes.

“Return to position,” the instructor said. “And do not apologize unless instructed.”

Beatrix nodded, turned, and immediately tripped on nothing at all, recovering just in time to avoid falling into Candy.

“Sorry,” she mouthed anyway.

Candy whispered back, “You’re upright. That’s progress.”

The instructor’s pen scratched something very hard onto the clipboard.

“Next scenario,” she said, turning to the shy girl of the group.

And the entire room braced again out of sympathy.

***

Madam Whipcott wasted no time jumping into the second scenario.

“Candy. Scenario two: Your husband has sat for dinner, and you have finished delivering it to the table. You now wish to join him sitting. Demonstrate the proper curtsey type.”

Candy took her stance, dipped into a Mealtime Dip (Tier 2), hands neatly folded in front. She spoke evenly:

“Thank you, husband, for earning this food we now eat.”

“Very good, Mrs. Elwood.”

Candy stepped back, muttering under her breath.

Instructor Whippletree looked to Beatrix. “You may begin.”

Beatrix stepped forward, held her arms out like she was presenting a ham, and dipped...

But she misjudged her proximity to the bench. Her skirt caught. She bounced backward into the wall with a soft thunk. She recovered, red-faced.

“Thank you, um, theoretical husband, for earning… oh no. My shoe’s gone!”

Red ink. The clipboard had a new sparkly X.

Madam Whipcott moved to the next round, quickly and efficiently.

“Candice. Scenario: You have just received a correction spanking for tardiness. Perform.”

Candy’s shoulders twitched, but she stepped forward and dipped into a Tier 4 Correction Bend; Low, steady with ands clasped and head bowed.

Her voice was level. “Thank you for correcting me, Sir.”

A long pause.

Instructor: “…Excellent.” The clipboard was marked with bright green.

As she turned to leave, Candy muttered, “Don’t enjoy it.”

Beatrix’s turn.

She walked forward like she was being led to the gallows.

“Uh… correction. Right. I can do this. Just like I practiced.”

She dipped. Her shoe slid. She overcompensated, flailed—

—and took out a decorative reverence banner with one arm as she toppled sideways.

The banner rod hit the instructor’s clipboard. The clipboard, mildly enchanted, glowed red.

Madam Whipcott stared icily. “You have struck a Ministry object of reverence.”

Beatrix sat up in a tangle of fabric. “I wasn’t being disrespectful. I was just off balance. The instructor placed her head in her palm and shook it before moving to the next woman.

***

Scene: Module Two – Final Trial: “Double Curtsy Under Pressure”

The instructor turned, the heels of her shoes clicking with bureaucratic menace.

“Final scenario. This is a Tier 6 Situation. You are entering a formal room containing two high-ranking male officials: one Ministry officer, one decorated military commander. You will perform a double curtsy—distinct, consecutive, synchronized with breath control and humility posture.”

Candy whispered, “Breath control?!”

Beatrix whispered back, “Do they grade inhaling now?”

The instructor ignored them both.

“Begin. Elwood, Candy.”

Candy stepped forward, rolled her shoulders, and inhaled slowly. Two dips: one low, one slightly higher. Separate. Poised. Impeccable timing. Arms straight, skirt held without wobble.

She rose silently and nodded once.

The clipboard burst into a full green shimmer, then added a small flourish that might have been a ribbon animation.

The instructor blinked. “…Acceptable.”

Candy returned to her bench like someone who’d just survived an interpretive drowning.

Then came Beatrix. She stepped up with determination in her eyes and glitter on her sleeve.

“I’ve practiced this. I’ve got this. I can totally do two dips in a row.”

She dipped once.

Fine.

She dipped again.

And her petticoat caught. Her shoe pivoted. Her balance tipped. With a startled yelp, Beatrix over-committed into what could only be described as a curtsy cartwheel. She twisted sideways, grabbed for the ribbon rail, and somehow ended up in a full kneel with one arm raised like a ballerina in distress.

Silence.

Even the clipboard seemed unsure. The instructor’s nostril flared. “That was not a valid curtsy.” Beatrix looked up from her floor pose.

“Was it… passionate?”

“No.”

“Memorable?”

“Yes.”

Candy leaned over, hand on her mouth to hide her smile.

The instructor closed her clipboard.

“Module Two complete. Elwood, you have passed.”

Candy exhaled. Barely.

The instructor turned to Beatrix.

“Whippletree… Pending reevaluation.”

Beatrix clapped. “Oh good! I love suspense!”

Then came the timid girl. Kara? Kira? Candy hadn’t caught it. The who had refused to speak before class out of fear it would count against her. She made it halfway through her first curtsy before she fainted.

And finally, the snooty one, Miss Daphanille, who had sneered at Candy’s boots on entry and also refused to talk to her, delivered two curtsies with icy, perfect precision… and neglected to breathe the entire time.

The instructor watched as Miss Daphanille staggered backward and clipped her head on the chalkboard tray.

“Miss Daphanille,” she said dryly, “Pass with high marks, though if you don’t breath soon I might call for a medical evaluation.”

Candy and Beatrix shared a look.

“…We’re doing great,” Candy muttered.

Beatrix grinned. “We’re practically icons.”

***

The Civic Obedience Hall door creaked open like it hated them personally.

Candy stepped into the early evening light with a sigh of bone-deep irritation. Her knees ached. Her thighs were trembling. Her dignity had a small bruise on it.

Beside her, Beatrix emerged beaming, humming a marching tune slightly off-key and slightly too loud.

“I think that went so well, don’t you?”

Candy stared at her. “You tripped over a national symbol.”

Beatrix giggled. “But only once! And I passed!”

“With a note highly recommending you retake the course.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just a recommendation,” Beatrix countered with a laugh.

They started walking down the stone path toward the neighborhood ring, clean little homes with lace curtains and hedges trimmed to legal standards.

As they reached the cobbled corner of Boot-black & 3rd, a window creaked open like it had waited for this moment.

Out leaned Mrs. Dapple, a matron known throughout the city for her constant gossip, who wore too many brooches and not enough tact.

“Oh-ho! Back from a little retraining, are we?” she trilled. “I do hope it wasn’t a Tier Two. Or heavens, a Tier Three!”

Candy forced a smile. “Just a light procedural reminder.”

Mrs. Dapple’s eyes glimmered. “Was it your curtsy clipping again, dear? I’ve always said your hips move too quickly. And such a shame, given how perfectly shaped they are for birthing. You know,” she rambled on, “it’s probably time you and your husband consider having children.”

Candy gagged a little at the thought, even with it being impossible.

Beatrix leaned forward cheerfully. “It was my hips! Mine threw me into a banner!”

Another curtain rustled on the opposite house. Out peeked Miss Applemire, Candy’s least favorite retired etiquette auditor.

“I told my niece,” Miss Applemire called, “the moment a girl misses a postman curtsy, it’s all downhill. One missed postman, next thing you know apology curtsies in the wrong tier.”

Candy muttered, “I hope a goat eats your stamps.”

Beatrix smiled and waved. “I’m single so if you have any nephews… just saying!”

Candy sighed and pulled her shawl tighter. More curtains shifted. More eyes appeared.

A toddler in a wagon pointed and asked his mother loudly, “Mama, why’s that one glowing red?”

Beatrix looked down. Her Ministry bracelet was still lit from the failed Double Dip.

“Oh. Oops.”

Mrs. Dapple gasped. “Pending reevaluation?!”

Beatrix nodded cheerfully. “But I did a cartwheel! That’s worth bonus flair, right?”

Candy grabbed her elbow. “We’re walking faster now.”

“Do you think your neighbors would like me?”

“No.”

“Are they always this invested?”

“Yes.”

“I like them!”

Candy gave her a look. “That’s your worst trait.”

They walked in step past the final gauntlet of brooch-heavy curtains and porch-sitters, following the well-scrubbed stones of the residential ring, until it curved toward the boundary.

It was nearly quiet now, just the clink of magic lanterns lighting themselves and the whisper of dusk settling over lintels. The Ministry Ring lay behind them, full of stone courtyards, small offices and training annexes. Ahead, the residential lanes bordered the living districts, where hedges were measured and trees trimmed to code.

At the turn between Domestic Discipline Row and Obedience Court, Beatrix slowed.

“My inn’s that way,” she said, pointing down a side street framed by flowerboxes and posture railings.

Candy nodded. “Mine’s about fifteen blocks past that. It’s in the second residential ring. We have a creek beyond us. It’s pretty nice, actually.”

Beatrix shifted her satchel. “Thanks for talking to me in there.”

“You were hard to ignore.”

“Yeah,” Beatrix said brightly. “Papa says I’m like a rolling barrel of ribbons. You don’t know what direction I’ll tip. He also says the fines I rack up pay the entire correction bench polishing budget yearly.” She laughed a little at that.

Candy gave a faint smile. “You did fine. Sort of.”

Beatrix grinned wider. “This is me,” she said, stopping beside a rune-post that marked an inn district. “Papa secured me a room. I have to check in before seven, or they assume I’ve fallen into something.”

“That tracks,” Candy said.

Beatrix shifted her bag, suddenly a little more serious. “I’ll write. If that’s… okay.”

Candy nodded. “I’d like that.”

It wasn’t every day she met someone like Beatrix. Most women she encountered fell neatly into categories: too afraid to speak, too trained to respond, or too sharp in the way that only came from policing others. Beatrix was none of those. Clumsy, yes. Loud, sure. But she was also entirely unregulated in ways that were a relief.

They lingered a moment longer than necessary. Then Beatrix stepped forward and wrapped Candy in a hug, tight, sudden, and alarmingly enthusiastic. Candy made a small, surprised noise as the air left her lungs. She patted Beatrix’s shoulder twice. “Right, yes, nice meeting you too,” she wheezed.

Beatrix pulled back instantly. “Oh! Sorry. My bad.”

She hesitated, then tilted her head. “So… what’s the appropriate thing here? Is it a curtsy dip?”

Candy laughed, an actual laugh, sharp and unguarded. “Technically, nothing’s required. But there is a farewell friendship curtsy.”

She demonstrated a small, informal dip that she'd just learned that day. Beatrix mirrored it, badly. They both laughed. They stood there a moment longer, then Candy nodded toward the corner. “Go. Before some other neighbor peeks out and asks how flexible your legs are.”

Beatrix winked. “They’re not, but I make up for it with a great personality!” And with that, she trotted off down the lane, humming to herself again, a light bounce in her step and a glitter trail left behind by her sleeve. Candy turned toward home.

At the corner of Cattle Place and Boot‑Blacking Boulevard, she stopped to tie her shoe. An annoying activity in a dress, at least she thought. Eventually, the streets opened up as she approached House Elwood of Verse Alley, set between two nice two-story homes with almost identical lace curtains and identical sanctioned herb gardens for this month’s observance. She stepped inside without announcing herself.

Marcus was at the writing table, sorting reports under lamplight. The smell of meat and bread hit Candy as she entered.

“You’re back,” he said without looking up.

“I passed.”

That got his attention. He glanced up, surprised, then nodded once. “Oh, thank the gods!”

“What, you thought I wouldn’t?”

“Eh, I never know with you,” he replied honestly but with a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Oh ha ha.” Candy kicked off her shoes and sat, her dress bunching slightly.

He looked at her a moment, then returned to his work. “Dinner’s warming.”

She didn’t answer. Just sat there, letting the silence settle, still stiff from posture drills and low-grade embarrassment. Eventually, she stood, crossed to the kettle, and poured herself tea.

“Do I get dessert?” she asked flatly.

Marcus flipped a page. “That depends. What’s your CCSS (courtesy count system score) today?”

She looked down at her wrist crystal. Still green.

“Seventy-nine.”

Marcus shrugged. “I think that qualifies.”

She took a bite of a honey biscuit. “So joking aside, that’s a real thing huh?”

“Well, you know better than me after the class, but yeah. Thank the gods it doesn’t actually activate for you for half a year still.

“Small mercies,” Candy said, a phrase she’d used all too often since her transformation. “There was one interesting thing,” she remarked.

“Oh, what was that?”

“I met a woman. Kind, funny, and a disaster in heels. She fell at least eight times.” Candy smirked. "Actually, I don't know why she's in heels! They're the worst possible shoe for her!"

“Sounds like a problem girl,” Marcus responded.

“A bit, I guess. I hope I see her again, actually.”

“Um, okay. Well, maybe you will then,” he responded, half listening and somewhat disengaged.

Marcus returned to his papers, and Candy wandered to the small mirror above the tea shelf. She stared at her reflection: the neat hair, the softly flushed cheeks, the dress she kept adjusting so it didn’t itch. She didn’t always recognize this girl. The one in the mirror. She often didn’t want to. She didn’t feel comfortable in her own body in general, but today hadn’t been the worst. She’d passed a Ministry course, didn’t die of embarrassment, and she still got dessert.

Plus, she met someone who didn’t treat her like a doll or a threat or a curiosity. Or too much like a woman. She’d just… been a person.

Beatrix.

Tall, chaotic, entirely unconcerned with decorum. She had legs for days, and jokes for longer. A complete mess. And somehow, that had been refreshing.

Candy sipped her tea. Then, without meaning to, she wondered, as she sometimes did these days, what might’ve happened if she’d never become Candy, that is, if she were still Cameron. Would he have even noticed someone like Beatrix? Cameron hadn’t been allowed to be with Penny, no matter how much he’d loved her, but surely, eventually, he would’ve ended up with someone. Who? What kind of woman? Beatrix was pretty, and damn it, those legs! Would he have flirted? Would she have flirted back? The thought made Candy snort softly into her cup.

“Could I have caught her before she hit ground?” she muttered, thinking of her old body, and fantasizing about a cute-meet moment.

Marcus looked up. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, turning back toward the hearth. “Just... wondering if we still have jam for the biscuits.”

“Top shelf,” he said.

She retrieved it, quietly smiling. The world was a mess, but today had been enough to fill her cup. Enough to keep her going in the mad house that was her life. She needed that, once in a while.

Chapter X: The Trick Question

Marcus almost spat out his tea. He choked, eyes wide, staring at Candy as if she had just asked if he liked getting punched in the face.

"What?"

Candy leaned on the table, tapping her fingers idly against the wood. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was far too casual to be anything but dangerous.

"I asked if you like my blowjobs."

Trap.

Marcus’s brain went completely blank. Candy knew exactly what she was doing. This was not a genuine inquiry. This was warfare, but why? She must be up to something. Was this a distraction? If so, from what? What did she do this time? It must be big if she was pulling this G.S.

Then, for a moment, he flashed back to the last blow job. Her plump lips around his shaft. Her full, rich red hair lightly gripped in his hand. Her tongue swirling around his rock-hard dick, licking the tip. Her amazing full breasts pressed against him as she bobbed up and down. His cock twitching with a delight that was almost too intense. The awkward knowledge that Candy had been Cameron, and was now forced into a ritualized sexual act, making it difficult to stay hard, yet his brain was confused by her insanely attractive body, minus the one part downstairs.

He snapped back to the present, where he could feel the sweat forming on the back of his neck. There was no right answer.

• If he said yes → Perv.
• If he said no → Insulted her.
• If he hesitated too long → Doomed.

She was already glaring at him. He'd better answer quickly. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"...I mean, uh, well enough..."

Candy’s eyebrow arched.

Wrong answer.

Marcus stumbled to recover. “I er, uh, it’s pretty awkward, and we’ve only done the two so far, so I... uh—”

"So you’re keeping count?!"

Damn it.

"No! I mean, I guess. It's just two! That's not enough to be a count!"

If looks could kill, Candy's would have exhumed Marcus three times over.