Candy stood at the threshold of Marcus’s house, a place she had walked into a hundred times before as Cam. But now? Now, it wasn’t a friend’s home. Now, it was her home. Now, it was her husband’s house. Marcus cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably behind her.
"Go on," he said, nodding toward the door. "You live here now."
Candy’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream.
She wanted to punch Marcus in the face and demand he fix this, even if she knew it wasn’t his fault.
Instead, she stepped inside, her new dress whispering against the wooden floor. Everything looked the same: the worn wooden furniture, the modest but comfortable hearth, the cluttered shelves of books and tools, but she had changed. And nothing would ever feel familiar again.
Candy’s first challenge wasn’t the dresses. It wasn’t the house. It wasn’t even Marcus’s awkwardness as he tried to be helpful without treating her too differently. No. The first challenge was her damn chest.
She had been leaning forward to inspect a document Marcus had left on the table when it happened. A soft, foreign weight shifted forward, and she nearly lost her balance. She caught herself on the table, cheeks burning with rage. Marcus, to his credit, looked away and pretended not to notice, but Candy was not fine. She straightened up too quickly, which made the unfamiliar flesh bounce, and she nearly tripped over her own feet.
"Oh, for gludge sake!" she snapped.
Marcus coughed into his fist. "You, uh… you okay?"
Candy whirled on him, glaring daggers. "No, I’m not okay, Marcus. My center of gravity is ruined, I’ve got flesh sacks attached to my chest, and I swear to the gods, if you so much as breathe a word about balance training, I will break something over your thick skull."
Marcus wisely said nothing, but the next morning, Candy found a discreetly placed support pillow on her chair. She grumbled and rolled her eyes, but sat on it. It didn’t help. Not really. Her back still ached, her posture felt alien, and worst of all she knew this wasn’t just temporary.
The ministry had also delivered her a full wardrobe, neatly folded and stamped with a wax seal of domestic approval. It was the most Paddlewickian thing she had ever seen, modest to a fault, with dresses in browns, beiges, and other grim, virtue-colored tones that looked like they had been invented to punish joy. A few outfits offered a whisper of cleavage, just enough to prove she was female without threatening anyone’s self-control.
There were full-length dresses and high-necked shirts, skirts with reinforced modesty pleats, and nightgowns that looked like they had been sewn by particularly cheerful fairies on sugar highs. Frilly, flouncy, and aggressively cute, the nighties came in soft pastels and had more bows than any adult should be expected to sleep in. Even the sleeves were puffed. Two sets of “obedience pajamas” had button flaps for presumed marital access, and a little heart embroidered over the left hip.
Every piece was labeled, catalogued, and sorted by daywear, sleepwear, or ceremonial use. Even the underthings were precise: soft cotton panties, thigh-length slips, and a brassiere in her exact (and insulting) new measurements. Someone had taken the time to monogram a handkerchief and a matching purse.
She sifted through the garments with a growing sense of dread. The fabrics were stiff and shapeless, clearly made for women already trained to wear them. Nothing stretched. Nothing gave. It was like the entire wardrobe had been designed by someone who thought comfort was a moral failing. The dresses didn’t fit her; they restrained her, politely and with full ministry approval.
She had seen the brassiere earlier, had rolled her eyes and tossed it aside like it was optional.
It wasn’t.
That was when it truly sank in, cold and heavy in her chest. She had new physics now. New soft, bouncing, abundantly perky physics. And physics didn’t care what she used to be. Physics demanded... a bra.
Candy had heard of bras before. She had seen women complain about them. She had even laughed when they groaned about the tightness, the straps, the struggle of getting the damn things on. She wasn’t laughing now.
"It’s simple," Marcus said, watching from a safe distance. "Just hook it in the back."
Candy hissed through her teeth, arms twisting behind her uselessly, fingers fumbling with the tiny metal hooks.
"Who the hell designed these contraptions?! This is a gludging torture device."
"You could try hooking it in the front and turning it around," Marcus offered.
Candy tried.
Candy failed.
"I’M GOING TO KILL SOMEONE!” She yelled in a voice that she didn’t recognize. In the end, Marcus had to step in and do it for her, much to both of their eternal discomfort. And once it was finally on? The weight was dispersed across her back. Gods that felt better! But then came the dress. It clung to her hips, it pinched at the waist, it swished mockingly around her legs, reminding her that trousers were no longer an option. Her stomach churned.
She felt small.
She felt exposed.
She felt humiliated.
Marcus offered no compliments because he knew better. Because he knew this wasn’t her choice. "I’ll… give you a moment," he muttered, stepping outside. And Candy stood there, staring at herself in the mirror, struggling to breathe past the horror of it all.
She leaned toward the mirror without thinking, trying to get a closer look at her reflection and promptly dipped her left breast into the decorative bowl of potpourri Marcus had placed on the dresser months ago. She froze, horrified. A cascade of dried petals clung to the front of her dress like some cursed corsage.
"Fantastic." She heard footsteps. Marcus was returning. In a blind panic, she grabbed a hairbrush and tried to sweep the petals into the drawer, snatching at clinging lavender bits and crushed leaves before he could step through the door. The door creaked open.
Marcus stepped in, glanced at her flushed face, then at the open drawer, then at the faint scent of overworked lavender filling the room. He said nothing. His eyes narrowed just slightly, a furrow of suspicion touching his brow but he seemed to think better of asking. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded once, like he was affirming some unspoken truce neither of them wanted to name.
"...Dinner’s in an hour," he said. And then, with the hesitant dignity of a man choosing survival, he stepped back out and gently shut the door. Candy stood frozen for a long moment, a petal still stuck to her collarbone.
She flicked it away, muttering, "I hate this dress."
The next morning, Marcus placed a thick, leather-bound book in front of Candy. Candy stared at the title. "The Paddlewick Marriage Handbook: A Guide to Obedience, Discipline, and Domestic Harmony." She looked back at Marcus.
"No."
"You have to read it," Marcus said, sighing.
"I’ll set it on fire."
"Candy—"
"I’ll set you on fire if you call me Candy again. I’m Cameron!"
Marcus sighed, his shoulders slumping down. “I’m really sorry, Cam, but I’ve got to start using Candy. If I don’t use your new legal name, we’ll be fined. And if you don’t learn the rules, you’ll get in trouble. Real trouble. Do you want to be sent to a reformation house?"
Candy froze. Marcus didn’t need to explain. Everyone knew about the Reformation Houses, places where "unruly wives" were sent to be "corrected." Candy didn’t know exactly what happened in them, but she knew no one came back the same. Slowly, she picked up the book, hands trembling with rage. She turned to the first page.
"A wife must be an ornament to her husband’s household, her behavior reflecting his honor and discipline. To ensure her virtue remains untarnished, a wife must abide by the following rules:"
She shall dress in a manner that pleases her husband, in garments befitting her womanly form.
She shall address her husband with respect at all times, referring to him as ‘Husband’ or ‘Sir.’
She shall obey his commands without question, for his judgment is superior to hers.
She shall accept correction with gratitude, as discipline strengthens the marital bond.
She shall serve as a comfort to her husband in all things, ensuring his needs are met promptly and without complaint.
She shall never contradict him in public, lest she bring shame upon him and herself.
Candy’s hands trembled with fury as she slammed the book shut. The rules were written in gold-inked calligraphy, as if that made them holy, sacred, untouchable.
“I hate this,” she whispered.
Marcus looked away. “I know,” he said quietly. For the first time, she saw it, the guilt in his face, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand twitched but didn’t reach for her. The self-loathing in his voice was quiet but unmistakable. He hated it too, but it didn’t matter because no one cared what either of them wanted.
That night, after Marcus had gone to bed, Candy sat alone in the lamplight. The book of marital conduct sat on the table like a coiled snake, glossy and pristine. She shouldn’t have opened it again, but she did. She couldn’t help herself. She flipped past the first chapter, past the section that laid out the husband's divine burden of care and leadership, past the fawning language about a woman’s sacred role in maintaining domestic serenity.
She skimmed.
Rule 12. A wife shall keep her hair styled to her husband's preference, and shall not cut it without his blessing.
Rule 19. A wife shall maintain a cheerful demeanor at social functions, and if melancholy persists beyond three days, her husband may petition for a corrective consultation.
“What the hell,” Candy muttered. She was somewhere between disgust and disbelief. “Corrective consultation? That’s therapy by way of spanking.”
She turned the pages faster now, looking for the worst of it—because she needed to know.
And then she found it.
Section V, Rule 28-B: Public Contrition Clause
Following a public correction, the wife must demonstrate her repentance and renewed devotion within twenty-four hours of the event. This demonstration shall take the form of an act of oral contrition performed in private upon the husband. This ensures the spiritual unity and erotic harmony of the household is restored in full.
Candy stared at the words. She read them again. Then again. And still, they didn’t stop being real. Her mouth went dry. Oral contrition. ORAL CONTRITION… holy hell! It was a fancy way of saying a gods damn blow job!