The First Steps into Her New Home

  Candy stood at the threshold of Marcus’s house, a pce 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 skirts 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.

  The Unwelcome Burden of Breasts

  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 bance. 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 fuck’s sake!" she snapped.

  Marcus coughed into his fist. "You, uh… you okay?"

  Candy whirled on him, gring 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 bance training, I will break something over your thick skull."

  Marcus wisely said nothing, but the next morning, Candy found a discreetly pced support pillow on her chair. She grumbled and rolled her eyes, but sat on it.

  The Cursed Bra & The First Dress

  Candy had heard of bras before. She had seen women compin about them. She had even ughed when they groaned about the tightness, the straps, the struggle of getting the damn things on. She wasn’t ughing 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 fucking 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." 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 actually 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.

  ,

  The Marriage Handbook: A Guide to Being a Good Wife

  The next morning, Marcus pced 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 Cam."

  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 expin. Everyone knew about the Reformation Houses, pces 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 compint.She shall never contradict him in public, lest she bring shame upon him and herself.Candy’s hands trembled with fury as she smmed 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.

  And 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.

  Because 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 mplight. 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 id out the husband's divine burden of care and leadership, past the fawning nguage 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 mencholy 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 CuseFollowing 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!