The Mage’s Verdict

  Hope was a dangerous thing. Candy knew that. She shouldn’t have let herself feel it. She shouldn’t have agreed to this visit. She shouldn’t have let Marcus talk her into seeing the damn mage. But despite everything, some tiny, desperate part of her still believed, so when Marcus led her through the winding stone halls of High Mage Eldrin’s study, her breath came shallow and unsteady. This could be it. This could be her way out.

  Eldrin was an ancient-looking man, draped in robes covered in ink stains, his eyes foggy with too much knowledge and too little sleep. He barely gnced up from the scrolls cluttering his desk as they entered.

  “Ah, the spell misfire case. Yes, yes,” he muttered, waving a bony hand toward Candy. “Come closer, girl.” Candy bristled at the word “girl” but said nothing. The moment she stepped forward, Eldrin’s hands hovered over her. Magic shimmered faintly in the air as he muttered ancient incantations under his breath. The sensation was strange—like invisible fingers brushing across her skin, seeking, unraveling, trying to understand. She held her breath. The room was quiet. Then, with a deep frown, Eldrin stepped back.

  Candy’s heart pounded. “Well?” she demanded. “Can you fix it?” Eldrin sighed and rubbed his temples.

  “No.” The word hit like a sp.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Marcus asked, crossing his arms.

  “I mean,” Eldrin snapped, “that this magic is no simple hex. It’s a foundational alteration. Your body, it’s holding the magic in a way, I can’t even describe. Undoing it would be like, I don’t know,” he said fumbling for an analogy. “like trying to separate water from tea after it’s already steeped.” Candy staggered back, the air rushing from her lungs.

  “No. No, no, no. You’re saying it’s permanent?” she asked in a small voice. Eldrin shrugged. “Nothing is truly permanent. But this?” He frowned. “This is... close.”

  “That can’t be,” Marcus said incredulously, “You can’t let her stay as… what’s the word even? I think in court someone said ‘”shemale” but, I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right. Is that right?”

  “Yes and yes,” the mage replied. “Baring something more powerful than I can realistically imagine, she’s stuck. And as for the term… well, Paddlewick is too bck and white to have proper words for these grey area’s. Bellefemme or Cleavendale have more modern concepts, better words” he shrugged, “but here, well, there will be more indignities than you can yet imagine.”

  Candy felt numb. She didn’t hear Marcus thank the mage. She didn’t register the exchange of coins. She just walked out. Because there was nothing left to say.

  The Shopping Trip

  Candy should have gone straight home after that. She should have locked herself in her room and screamed into a pillow. But no. Marcus, ever the practical man, insisted they make use of the trip into town to buy more supplies. And because she had no real choice, she followed.

  The market streets were bustling, filled with wives and merchants. The scent of spices, fresh bread, and vender drifted through the air. Candy hated every second of it. She hated the corset digging into her ribs. She hated the swish of her skirts as she walked. She hated the way people looked at her—not as Cam, but as Candy. A wife. A docile little thing meant to obey.

  Marcus was trying to be gentle, speaking softly, guiding her through the shops like he was handling something fragile. But fragile things break. When the merchant at the fabric stall ignored her entirely and spoke only to Marcus, treating her like she wasn’t even there, something inside her snapped.

  “I’M STANDING RIGHT HERE!” she shouted. The marketpce went silent. Candy barely registered it. She was too furious, too full of rage, too tired of being nothing but an accessory.

  “I am not invisible! I can speak for myself!” she snapped. The merchant, a plump, startled man, stared at her like she was a wild animal. Marcus’s hand shot out, gripping her arm tightly. “Candy,” he said, his voice low and warning. But Candy was too far gone.

  “No! I’m sick of this! I’m sick of everyone treating me like I don’t—”

  “Enough,” Marcus said sharply. Candy froze. And then, like a knife between her ribs, she heard it.

  “You should handle her here, Husband,” an older noblewoman murmured nearby. “A wife should never raise her voice in public.” Whispers followed. Murmurs. Dozens of eyes turned toward her. Candy missed a breath and she realized, too te, what she had done. Marcus, grabbed her wrist and tried to whisk her out of the market but a guard had already descended.

  “What seems to be the trouble here?” he opened with the standard guard line.

  “Oh no trouble officer, my wife just got a little carried away. You know women, right? I’m taking her home for a correction right now I assure you.” Before he could leave though the crowd filled the guard in. The shouting, the speaking out of turn, the disrespect to her husband.

  “Sir,” he said to Marcus how had not even made it ten paces away, “I’m afraid you must take her to the public bench,” he gestured over to the row of spanking benches in view. “The w demands it.”

  The Public Spanking

  The wooden bench in the center of the marketpce wasn’t just a bench. It was a correction bench, meant for wives who needed discipline on the spot. Candy had seen it before. She had watched other women be dragged over it, had heard their choked apologies and tearful promises to do better. She had never imagined she would be one of them.

  “Marcus,” she whispered, her voice shaking. Marcus didn’t look at her. He just led her forward, each step like walking to the gallows. The crowd watched. The merchant watched. The noblewomen whispered behind gloved hands. ‘Marcus! Please no! This is humiliating!”

  “This is for your own good,” Marcus decred for the benefit of the guard and the crowd. Then he sat down on the bench and pulled her over his p. Candy barely had time to breathe before the first swat nded. A sharp sting spread across her already sore backside, heat blooming beneath her skirts.

  Another swat nded, then another. Candy bit down on her lip, hard, forcing herself to stay silent. The sting bloomed hotter with each strike, blooming in sharp, rhythmic waves across her backside. Her body flinched despite her best efforts, her hands clenching into fists against her skirts. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, both sets. The humiliation wasn’t just in the pain, it was in the eyes. All around her, people had gathered. Watching. Whispering.

  “But Mommy,” came a high, confused voice from nearby. “Why is that dy getting spanked?”

  A woman’s voice answered gently, but with a note of patronizing cheer. “Because she was naughty, darling. And her husband is teaching her to behave.”

  The words made Candy’s stomach twist.

  “She’s not crying,” the child observed. “Don’t spankings make you cry?”

  “They’re supposed to,” the woman replied, a little louder this time. “She’ll learn soon enough.”

  Another swat. The murmurs behind her grew louder, more emboldened.

  “Stubborn one, isn’t she?” said a man to her left.

  “Probably needs a few more,” someone else chimed in. “Teach her what submission means.”

  “She’s too proud,” came a sharper voice. “If she were my wife...” Candy shut her eyes tight. Her ears burned. Her face burned. Her backside was already on fire, but it was the words that fyed her.

  Even as the swats continued, even as her skin burned, even as the humiliation crawled under her skin like poison, she refused to cry. She refused to let them see it. The crowd didn’t just want justice. They wanted a performance. Paddlewick demanded repentance, tears, apologies, gratitude for correction. Candy had none of it to give. She heard someone ugh softly.

  “He’s not even going that hard. She’s just being dramatic.”

  “She’s trying not to break,” another said, almost amused. “How long do you think she’ll st?”

  And still she stayed silent. They hit 25 swats, the minimum for a correction spanking.

  “Apologize, Candy,” Marcus said softly, almost pleading.

  Her throat closed. The marketpce fell into breathless silence. Dozens of eyes bore into her. She wanted to fight. She wanted to scream. She wanted to say something sharp enough to make them flinch. But what would that do? It would only make it worse. Give them justification. Give the w a reason to take her somewhere colder, crueler. A reformation house, where obedience wasn’t coaxed—it was carved.

  So she swallowed her pride like gss and forced the words out.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice choked and bitter.

  There was a long pause. Then Marcus exhaled slowly, his hand resting lightly on her back as he loosened his grip. The punishment was over. The lesson was learned.

  And Candy? Candy was furious, humiliated, sad, angry… she wasn’t sure.

  Behind her, the crowd slowly began to disperse, satisfied. Some nodded in approval. A few mothers pointed her out to their daughters as a cautionary example. The noblewoman who had spoken earlier cpped once sharp and approving, like the end of a well-done py.

  The guard leaned in and in a lowered voice said, “Well done sir. Just so you know, wives usually must count their swats, but as this was obviously your first time we’ll let it slide.” Marcus thanked the guard and helped Candy up. She stood slowly, her face bnk. Her body trembled, but her expression didn’t crack.

  She didn’t meet Marcus’s eyes. She didn’t speak. She simply turned and started walking toward home, the st sting of the paddle still blooming beneath her skirts... and the echo of their voices trailing after her like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

  The Walk Home

  The walk home was silent. Marcus didn’t say anything. Candy didn’t look at him. She just stared at the ground, her body aching, her face burning, her mind empty.

  Because today, something had changed. Today, she had crossed a line she couldn’t undo. Today, she had been punished in public. Tonight she was expected to kneel and give an act of ‘oral devotion’. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, they would expect her to act like it had worked. Like she was learning. Like she was becoming what they wanted her to be.

  The Private Aftermath

  Paddlewick’s ws didn’t end in the square. The public spanking was only half the ritual. At home, Candy saw the dull, expectant flicker of the Devotion Pearl glowing grey in the bedroom. She stared at it. Then at Marcus. Then back at the rune. She didn’t cry. She didn’t argue. She just dropped to her knees. Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

  “Just let me speed through this,” she muttered.

  She didn’t want it. He didn’t want it. But the Pearl demanded it. And in Paddlewick, the w was always watching. Candy knelt on the hard wooden floor, her breath shallow and uneasy. The room was too quiet.

  Her cheeks burned, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her mind screaming this isn’t happening. But it was. Marcus shifted above her, tense, uncomfortable, his hand resting awkwardly at his side. Neither of them wanted this.

  The spell that changed her body hadn’t changed her mind. She was not attracted to men. This was going to be very gross for her. But Paddlewick’s rules did not care. This was what a proper wife did. This was expected. So Candy forced herself to move. She reached up, fingers trembling as she fumbled at his belt, her stomach twisting into knots. Marcus stiffened.

  "Candy, you don’t,"

  "Yes, I do," she cut him off, voice ft and resigned. "Let’s just… get this over with."

  Marcus let out a heavy breath, his jaw tightening. She undid his buckle, pulled down the fastenings, and…

  Her eyes buldged. Oh. Well. That was a lot. Not massive. Not terrifying. But definitely there. She had never done this before. And she had no idea what she was doing. But she had to do something. So, trying to ignore every part of her brain screaming at her to run, she braced herself on his thighs, leaned in and took him in her mouth.

  It was… awkward. Very awkward. She had no rhythm. She wasn’t sure how much to take in. Her jaw felt strange, her tongue unsure, and she could tell Marcus was trying very hard not to react too much. But his fingers twitched, barely resisting the urge to touch her, to guide her. And then…

  "Ah! Not the teeth!"

  Marcus yelped, his whole body jerking. Candy immediately pulled back, eyes wide.

  "Oh, shit! Sorry!" she gasped, mortified.

  Marcus, still wincing, exhaled through his nose.

  "It’s," He cleared his throat. "It’s fine. Just… softer. Less… teeth."

  Candy groaned.

  "You could have warned me."

  Marcus looked down at her, expression somewhere between pained and exasperated.

  "I didn’t exactly think I had to."

  Candy gred.

  "I hate this."

  "You think I don’t?"

  Silence.

  A long, unbearable, humiliating silence.

  Then, with a deep, miserable breath, she lowered herself again.

  "Just… tell me what to do," she muttered, staring at the floor.

  Marcus looked deeply uncomfortable. But after a long pause, he gave quiet instructions, his voice low, hesitant, and painfully resigned. And she followed them. Time passed, it felt like forever.. Marcus wasn’t exactly into this, his best friend, turned woman, cajoled by w to be doing this. Plus, she wasn’t great at it.

  Eventually his voice became strained. Not from pleasure, Candy thought, but from restraint. He wasn’t enjoying this either. Not really. He was just... doing what the w required. After a few more minutes of effort, Candy paused, catching her breath, her hand still awkwardly moving. Her jaw ached, her lips tingled, and her pride had long since shattered.

  “How much longer?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  Marcus didn’t answer at first. Then, with a breath that was half a groan and half apology, he whispered, “Almost.”

  She returned to it, her movements robotic now, her mind elsewhere. She tried not to think about what she was doing. About how it might look from the outside. About how she was fulfilling some ministerial cuse of repentance.

  “Don’t stop,” Marcus warned, voice tight. “Just, keep going. Same rhythm.” Candy hated the sound of that. Like she was a tool. A rhythm. But she kept going. She did her best.

  It was awkward.It was uncomfortable.It was the single most degrading thing she had ever done.

  And then…

  He didn’t warn her as early as she would have liked. The moment came quickly, his hand gripping the table behind him, his voice choked with tension. Candy realized too te…

  Warm, bitter, awful. Her cheeks bulged and she swallowed out of reflex. Her stomach turned. Marcus tensed, sucking in a breath as she jerked back, coughing.

  "You absolute," She gagged, wiping at her mouth, gring daggers at him.

  Marcus groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

  "I tried,"

  "No, you did not," she snapped, horrified.

  She staggered to her feet, storming toward the wash basin, grabbing a cloth and furiously wiping her lips.

  "This is the worst night of my life."

  Marcus, still catching his breath, muttered, "Yeah. Mine too."

  Candy whirled on him.

  "You didn’t just have a dick in your mouth, Marcus."

  His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Because he knew she was right. Because no matter how awful this was for him… it would always be worse for her. She wiped her mouth again, shaking slightly. Her skin crawled, her stomach churned, and she wanted to disappear.

  Marcus didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him. The weight of it all pressed down, suffocating and final. Because this was the first time. And it wouldn’t be the st. This was just another part of being a wife in Paddlewick. And there was no escape. She turned, walked away.

  “Where are you going?” Marcus asked.

  “To gargle with vodka!” she called back.