Alex Bridges

You’re doing great!

I haven’t started on Volume 3. I’ve been working more on some new series. But as I’m doing that, I’m also revising Volume 2 and will release it on Amazon when it’s done

This is well written and moves at a good pace. Fun scenario you’re building to. Nicely done.

This is fun. I’m excited for where it will go.

Thanks for starting this thread. My (former) Patreon subscribers and those who wish to support my writing can now do so at reamstories.com/lexibridges.

Hi all! I've been neglecting posting here to focus on my Patreon, and then last week Patreon deleted ALL abdl creators. Just totally purged us, costing them and me an important source of income and leveling a very ugly charge at us. It's been mentally and financially a strain, and I'm just getting back on my feet. So here's an overdue update. But also, here's where you can find my latest work now that my Patreon is gone. Even if you subscribe for just a month to help me get back on my feet, it is so appreciated: reamstories.com/lexibridges. The first 30 subscribers get a discount for as long as they stay subscribed. And with out futher ado, Scene #214 ______________________________ “Wake up,” this lady I took on vacation said. “Ehhhh fubbit,” I grumbled without opening my eyes. “Time to wake up.” “Govay.” “Do I need to tickle you out of bed?” “What’s even feffeh moog in (snore).” I’m so pretty and coherent in the morning. Really. “Daffy!” “What?!? I’m awake!” “We have to go in thirty minutes if you want to go on the very expensive winery tour you booked.” I did book it, and I did want to go, and I knew when I decided I wanted to go and booked it that the moment would come when I’d have to get out of bed early. Getting out of bed is inherently traumatic. “I’m sleeping on the bus,” I mumbled after sighing deeply to let the world know how put upon I am (European vacations, wine tours – how I martyr myself) before flipping the covers off me in a melodramatic fashion as befits the melodrama that is getting out of bed. It’s literally the worst part of most of my days, which I guess means I lead a very easy life but the coming of the dawn before I’m ready for it still sucks. “You’re moving like a little old lady,” Mary said to me. She had a point, but like I’d ever admit it. “The bed is too hard. My back hurts.” “You’ll loosen up with a hot shower.” And then – get this! – she swatted my butt. Right on my butt! She thinks that makes me move faster, and just because she’s right doesn’t mean I’ll ever admit it. I was thinking, during my shower, that I really am one oppositional, pissed-at-the-world bitch when I get up before I’m ready. The shower did loosen my back a little, and it woke me up … right before it made me very sleepy. Dammit. When I came out of the bathroom, who should I find sitting the bed waiting for me? Mary. She’s very pretty in the mornings. “Let’s get you dressed,” she said to me. “Ahh, Mary, do I hafta,” I said because reasons all the perverts and voyeurs reading my diary must assuredly know by now. Stupid diapers. “Of course you do. We’re gonna be on a bus.” “You just say stuff like it explains other stuff,” I shot back as I obediently dropped my towel and got on the bed. She’s lucky I’m a good rule follower or I’d fuss so hard she’d wish I wouldn’t fuss so hard. “Of course I do. The sky is blue. Hey, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it!” “How are you like this in the morning!?!” “I’m just so excited I get to spend the day with my bambina. Lift your butt.” Mary won’t stop calling me her bambina. Woman can barely order gelato without my help but zeroed in on the word for “baby girl” and it’s bambina thisand bambina that. I don’t mind it, but I’m afraid she’s gonna shorten it to just calling me Bambi, and while I’ve been known to make adoring Bambi eyes at her, I hate that name. “Now,” she said and helped me sit up, “I’m taking your diapee bag, and I’ll check you bunches to make sure you don’t leak. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing, having a leaky diapee in front of a whole tour group?” “Some time today,” I said, “and I don’t know when but it will be today, I’m gonna bite you. I’ve decided.” She may be bigger and stronger than me, but I can still bite. Totally unrelated, did you know ninjas did ballet? The ninja I married ballet-twirled me around, smacked me on the butt twice, and said to me – she really said this! – “You better wake up from your nap on the bus in a much better mood or I’ll have to find a semi-private place to spank your little bottom.” There’s lots of ways to interpret that when you’re into spanking. “So … do you want me in a better mood or the same mood?” Or I can be in an even worse mood. Really. Well, not really cuz what she said sounds fun and was already making me cheer up, but I can pretend. I’m good at pretense. Pretense is one of the foundation stones holding up any BDSM lifestyle relationship. “You just be you, and I’m sure it will be a fun day,” is how my Mary responded to me. A point is what she has cuz I’m all the kinds of fun when I’m not being none of the kinds of fun. Mary decided she needed to dress me the rest of the way, which I’m 90% sure had nothing to do with not being late and all the things to do with fondling me from top to bottom. By way of evidence, I can put my bra on without cupping or squeezing or pinching anything, but Mary needed to do all three twice, once surreptitiously and once, after I called her on it, totally titiously. You know who has a hard job? Tour guides. How many espressos do they need to be in such a good mood first thing in the morning? Bless his little heart, but the talking was making it very difficult to sleep on Mary. That’s when I got the idea for the solution to the hard hotel beds: Mary sleeps on the bed, and I’ll just sleep on Mary. She’s just the right amount of soft yet firm (in body and BDSM style … sigh …). I woke up to the sensation of someone slipping their hand up my skirt. I hoped o so very much it was Mary and wanted o so very much to tell her I’M NOT A BEDWETTER AND SHE DOESN’T NEED TO CHECK THE STUPID DIAPER SHE MADE ME WEAR WHEN I’M ASLEEP! Would’ve been a good time to bite her; she’d never see it coming. But I merely snapped my knees closed. “Good morning again,” she said to me like I didn’t just catch her with her hand in the cookie jar. Know what happens to me when I get caught with my hand in the cookie jar? I get told I’m gonna spoil my dinner and smacked on the butt with a wooden spoon. Scolded, swatted, and maybe a cookie – I don’t think she understands sometimes what motivates me to be on my worse-than-average behavior. “It’s dry,” I said as the light entered my pupils and made me feel momentarily hung over. Did I ever mention busses make me a little motion sick? “But for how long? Heehee! And don’t you worry your little piddle pants,” she said as she set her day bag on her knees and unzipped it to show me what she brought, like I didn’t already know. “I got everything we need for a diaper change, even if you have one of your poopy accidents.” “Marrrrryyy,” I hissed. “I don’t and be quiet. We’re stuck with these people all day.” To which she responded by taking out the hairbrush. “Put that away. You’re gonna get us in trouble.” “It’s also used to comb hair, bambina,” she whispered to me. Or maybe mock whispered. Slight chance she was mocking me and what, I’m sure, she would characterize as my histrionics. The meaning of that word is ‘overly theatrical or melodramatic in style’ and well she may think that, but no one has ever claimed she dirties her diapers. And in point of fact – facts being things I care deeply about and for which Mary cares not a whit – if I ever said such a thing about her I’d be bare bottomed over her lap getting paddled like a canoe before the last syllable left my lips, so which of us is histrionic about these things? I ask you, and I answer, MARY IS AND NOT ME AND I NEVER DID THAT IN ONE OF MARY’S DIAPERS EVER! “Turn around,” she bid me, and I did but only because I’m biddable and stuff. She started combing my hair and said to me, “Did I ever thank you for growing your hair out again?” “Mhmm.” She did, many times. “Can I braid it when we get back to the hotel tonight?” “Mhmm.” “You wanna get naked and sit between my thighs while I do it?” “Yes. Yes, that is a thing I wish to have happen.” And then she kissed my neck. Sigh … Any hope I may have had about keeping the diaper dry was dashed by the day’s chosen activity. No one goes on a winery tour without having to pee at some point. There’s a specific method for tasting wine: give it a swirl in your glass to expose every molecule to oxygen; smell it; take a sip; hold the wine against the inside of your cheek; purse your lips and inhale with the wine still in your mouth like you’re slurping; swish it around; spit it out. You spit it out because your ability to taste all the tastes declines along with your other senses when you have alcohol, so to maintain your tasting faculties, you don’t actually drink the wine. I know this because I am a sophisticate. One thing people weren’t doing on our tour, though, was spitting it out, and I wasn’t either because I wasn’t judging a wine competition. I was there to experience the Tuscan wine country while maintaining a low-key buzz. I am hardly a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, but also I am, is the thing. I pack a lot of feistiness and fierceness and basically all the good qualities into a small package. I had a delightful buzz and it was only ten in the morning. “You’re making your potty face,” the evil temptress I married whispered into my ear from behind. I whirled around very discreetly and told the witch-queen of ageplay town, “I don’t have a potty face, and you can’t even see from back there.” “So if I gave you a spontaneous hug and goosed your diaper, it wouldn’t be warm and wet?” “… No,” is the answer I chose to give. “Mhmm. You know what fibbers get?” “Show me later.” And she did after lunch. She leaned over and whispered to me, “You have a sopping wet diaper.” Seriously, going on vacation with her is all the kinds of fun and also all the kinds of embarrassing. She’s mostly good about not letting others hear the humiliating things she says but she can’t guarantee it won’t happen. I, on the other hand, am equally good at being humiliated and at being aroused by it because Mother Goddess of the Universe blessed me with a humiliation kink and paired me up with Mary. “Let’s go take care of that.” The wineries are made out of stucco and have high ceilings. Things echo. It was for this reason that once in the restroom Mary slapped the hairbrush into her palm and made her thinking face. “Too much,” she said to me. “Guess I’ll hafta spank your naughty bottom with just my hand.” “Naughty? I wasn’t naughty. I’ve been in my best behavior all day.” In fact, if anyone was pushing right up against the line it was Mary. “You fibbed earlier. I heard it with my own two ears.” “Would it help if we laid down in the vineyard and I nibbled on them?” I’m very good at ear nibbling, like we sapphics tend to be. Lots of practice making perfect and all that. “It would help,” Ninja Ballerina Barbie said as she did a twirly thing so I was bent under her arm staring at my feet with my skirt flipped up, “if you take your spanking like the big girl you so obviously are not.” A spanking over a diaper is a loud affair. A Ph.D. student in physics should do their dissertation on why. It hardly hurts though, especially when your domme seems more intent on reminding you you’re wearing a diaper and that it’s wet than on the actual spanking. “This is an anniversary of sorts, Daffy. Do you know why?” “No ow!” That one got my thigh. “The very first time I put you back in diapers was for a trip to a winery. Don’t you remember me changing you into a dry pull-up in the lady’s room?” O gawd yes I do. Ech! “I only peed it cuz I thought it would gross you out and you’d never make me wear one again,” I confessed. “I figured that out a long time ago, little girl.” “I’m not a little girl.” “O, so it’s a big girl I have tucked under my arm getting spanked in her soggy pampers? Or …” She abruptly stopped and let me up. “Or did you not even realize your diaper was wet? Did you have accidents and not even know it? Is that what happened to my little girl?” “Marrrry!” “You should tell Mommy these things. I would never spank for real accidents even if you did fib about not having them. I understand how embarrassing it is to be a little girl your age who can’t keep her pants dry. That’s why you’re back in diapers.” Like, all the pretense ever supports the entire superstructure of our lifestyle relationship (which is super). “We should play games I can win sometimes,” I didn’t mutter but didn’t really address to Mary either. “My poor bambina. Let’s change your diaper.” Now, maybe Mary was lost in her headspace. Maybe what she said triggered what she said next without thinking. Maybe she’s evil (if so, I love her anyway). Cuz there was a knock at the door, and Mary called back, “Just a minute – I’m changing a diaper.” Instant hot-cold ball of excited anxiety in my stomach, racing heart, clammy skin, the metallic taste of adrenaline in my mouth. “M …” was my sole response to the look Mary gave me when she adjusted my skirt after taping another of those things on me. “Feel better,” she had the nerve to ask me. We’re married; she can pretend to be super confident and poised at all the times, but she couldn’t hide from me the nervousness in her expression. She threw the diaper away and washed both our hands while I felt as small (and smol) and submissive and anxious and humiliated as I’ve ever felt. The only thing that could’ve made it worse (better?) is if she spread a blanket out in the vineyard and changed me there. “Maybe they don’t speak English,” Mary said as she zipped up her backpack, put an arm around my shoulder, and took us to the door. What was she nervous about? It would be rather obvious to anyone outside the door which of us needed a diaper change (or maybe not but it sure feels that way when you’re me and with Mary). And if she were accused of playing kinky games in the public restroom, I have no doubt in my soul Mary would go mama bear mode and lash out claiming her wife (that’s me) has a disability and how dare they and so on. Thank goodness for pretense. Or maybe Mary was afraid I’d be angry with her when I regained my power of speech. We stepped outside, and I concentrated my eyes on the floor. Several pairs of vacation-sensible walking shoes were waiting in line for the restroom. We neither rushed nor dawdled but walked straight outside where Mary gave me a good squeeze and asked, “How ya feeling?” “Turmerfuzzit.” “Could be worse. Imagine if you’d had a dirty diaper. I’d still be wiping your bottom, and the smell would make it obvious to the next person just what kind of diaper you made.” “Froogger nuggin.” “So cute when you get so twitterpated you forget to use your words. Remember what happened when we got home from the winery the first time I put you in pull-ups?” Yes. Yes I did. In fact, the muscle I pulled putting my leg back behind my … anyhoo. “We’re gonna do that later,” I asked. “Yeah, if you want.” “Okay.” “You mad at me or just stunned?” “The second thing you said.” “Is your diaper the other kind of wet right now?” “Don’t.” “Don’t what? Don’t ask anymore embarrassing questions about your diaper cuz it might make you cum? Daffy, look at me – ya gonna cum? In the fresh diaper I just put on your bottom in case you have more accidents? Ya gonna Number Three in your luvs? Hmmm?” “Hhhhh … Fffffff!” “There’s my good girl. I know you can’t help what you do in your diapers.” Awww heck heccin yes! She called me a good girl! And no to the other thing she said. Um, really.

Hey there! So the good news is, I'm alive! The bad news is Patreon decided to ban ABDL content with no warning. They purged all the major writers on 28 November, a bunch of artists, and video models as well. They're continuing to find and delete ABDL and ageplay creator accounts. I've moved my stories to Ream. I just got it up and running yesterday. I'm loading all my old content and the new chapters I was working on before this mess happened. You can sign up at reamstories.com/lexibridges. The first 30 subscribers get a discount for as long as they stay subscribed. I really appreciate it. Losing my Patreon has been quite a blow mentally and financially.

Cutie!

Mary and Daphne Scene #213 “Mary,” I said to Mary cuz that’s who I was talking to. Not just any Mary either but my Mary. Usually that’s just a thing I say cuz it’s so fun to be reminded that I’ve got the one and only, but there are Mary’s all over the place in Italy (except they call them Maria hahaha jk). So anyhoo, I said, “Ya know, Mary, I was thinking that after lunch when we get back to the hotel I could have a, um, treat.” And then I wagged my eyebrows up and down all suggestively but it never works well. Is having uncoordinated eyebrows a thing? But Mary has known me long enough to know what it means when I eyebrows are having a fight with my forehead. “O yeah,” she said all suggestively too. This is our marriage: suggestin’ stuff suggestively. “Only good girls who’ve been extra well behaved get treats.” Well, let’s just deconstruct the nonsense behind that implication. “Ahem,” I cleared my throat. “You are a good girl.” “Heccin right.” I’m a good girl even when I’m being bad to the bone (b-b-b-b-bad (buhdadabuhda) bad to the bone). I’m probably the bestest of the best girls, actually, but I don’t like to bring it up in case it makes others feel bad about all the ways they’re not as a good a girl as I am. Isn’t that considerate of me? I think so too. “So what have you done to be extra well behaved,” Mary asked me like she didn’t know but she friggin did. This woman, I swear. “You know,” I told her and made very cute grumpy eyes. Making grumpy eyes when you’re not grumpy isn’t a bratty thing to do, and even if it were, it wouldn’t undo the many ways in which I was extra well behaved all morning and would have no impact at all on my status as the bestest of the best good girls. And acts of brattitude don’t a brat make. Really. “But I may have missed some things. I was so focused on the art,” she said in her we-both-know-and-I’m-just-playing-with-you tone. And in case there was any mistaking it, she was playing footsy with me under the table. Makes me wish I had a foot fetish just for fun and stuff. “Well, Mary,” I replied with a little bit of attitude breaking though in my otherwise dulcet tone, “I was also looking at the art.” “The whole time?” “The whole time.” “You weren’t doing anything else? Cuz looking at the art is what you’re supposed to do in a museum. If you were extra well behaved, you must’ve done something else too.” “I bet you were the kid who wouldn’t stop tapping on the glass at the zoo,” I told her. I can see her now, just tap-tap-tapping away until she got the reaction she wanted from the animals no matter how many times she was told to stop. Persistent little button pusher all grown up into a persistent big button pusher. “Yeah, and?” See, I communicate just fine. It’s Mary who misses my brilliant points. “Never mind.” Hmmph. “So you were being a extra good.” “I stayed by your side like you told me to.” “Mhmm.” “And I held your hand when you told me to.” Not gonna lie (cuz I would never in general) – holding Mary’s hand is never an imposition. I like it and stuff, like, a lot and things. “What else?” “You know what else.” “I’m pretty sure I don’t,” Mary fibbed. She’s a fibber; glad I’ve never done a fib. Really. “If you don’t tell me, how will I know if you were extra well behaved or merely well behaved?” Merely?!? There’s nothing mere about being well behaved! It’s hard work. I’m adventurous! I’m feisty! I’m a handful! I’m the life of the party and a goddamned delight! Keeping myself in check is a full time job. That’s why I asked Mary o so many years ago to help keep me in line cuz I’ll cross all the lines. Really. I will! … And stuff. Like the line about ordering in more than twice a week? I crossed that all the time before Mary. And the line about getting out of bed at a reasonable time? Crossed! See? Ya see? Left to my own devices, I’ll go so nuts you won’t see me for days cuz I’ll be at home eating restaurant cake and sleeping nine hours a day. Friggin off my rocker! Unconstrained by society’s rules! A menace! A bad example for our young people! Um, really. Back to the point though. “You’re really gonna make me say it,” I asked. Just asked, didn’t plead. I’m not a pleader except for when I’m pleading, and I wasn’t … yet. “If you wanna treat.” “Maybe I’ll just treat myself.” Ha! And I could do it while she watches … And I could take my time … And maybe she wouldn’t be able to take it and would lose her self control and give me a treat or two of her own. “Nope,” Mary said all breezily like … Urgh! “Fine. I … I didn’t ask to go to the lady’s room.” Mary’s I’m-pretending-to-be-confused face. “You had to go to the potty? Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because you explicitly told me not to on pain of embarrassing the heck outta me.” True story. Too many strangers in the museum made going to the lady’s room too risky; strangers could steal me. That was her flimsy pretext. I don’t even know why she bothers with pretexts. O wait – yes I do! If she just told me no, that would be dominance. By giving me a fake reason, she gets to imply I’m too little, which ticks me off, which she thinks is cute and hot. And it is, but it still ticks me off because I’m not a little girl! I shouldn’t have to … Deep breath. “And you’ve been holding it this entire time,” she asked in her I’m-faux-shocked-and-horrified tone. She is such a so-and-so. “…No.” “But you said you needed the potty. If you needed the potty then and don’t need the potty now … Is there something you wanna tell me?” “No.” “Did you use your diaper?” To which I answered with my I’m-cheesed-off-and-not-answering-that-question look. “Daffodil, while we were looking at Michelangelo’s David, were you wetting your diaper? Is that why when I started to walk around the statue, you tugged my hand and we stood there for another half a minute? Cuz you were getting all your peepee out into your Huggies?” “I would just like to point out that in this very moment I’m being extra well behaved again.” “Are you wetting again? Do you need changed before you have a leaky diaper?” Deep breath. “I’m not throwing spaghetti at you. For that I deserve a treat.” Btw, Mary was so hot and bothered her game of footsie was more like a game of can-I-grope-Daphne’s-leg-with-my-foot. She’s so … pleasant in all the ways. Good thing I brought her with me to Europe. So anyhoo, back at the hotel, in one of those delightfully solid old world buildings that offers guests auditory privacy drywall can never even approach, Mary closed the door behind us and said to me, “So you wanna treat?” And I recognized the delightfully predatory look she gives me when she’s all charged up. She’s a lioness waiting to pounce, and I’m a spritely savanna mouse who with a swish of her tail will trigger Mary’s chase instinct. That’s how my non-iron-can-be-washed-in-the-sink-perfect for-traveling pants wound up across the room before my shoes were even off. “Ya know,” Mary said while, um, what’s the word? Groping? Yeah, groping the diaper she made me wear. Hard groping. “We can buy these diapers back home. Do you like them?” “I’ve never liked any of them. Why do you – heh! – like them s-so much?” “Because they’re not very thick, so I like how squishy your butt is in it. You got it so wet, and it’s so snug on you, and I like the way it makes your butt feels.” Took almost four years, but I think Mary just admitted she has a diaper fetish. Her ageplay fetish was clearly something she was born with, but pretty sure the diaper fetish was acquired through sheer exposure. Alas, I’ve not. But fortunately, I have a making-Mary-happy-fetish, and a humiliation fetish, and an ageplay fetish, and a doing-what-Mary-tells-me fetish, and even if I had no fetishes at all, I’d still enjoy Mary giving me an HJ with one hand while taking my top and bra off with the other. She’s quite dexterous, a wonderful trait in us lesbians. How she managed to undress herself at the same time … I think she’s a wizard too? “You shoulda told me you were having an accident in front of David. Mommy can’t help you if you don’t tell me.” I didn’t respond because I was busy breathing hard. “Right in front of everybody too.” She did this sexy chuckle thing that is just, oof, so good to hear. “You’re probably in a dozen people’s vacation photos wetting your huggies … Did you just cum in your soggy pampers?” “(Squeaky orgasm noises).” “Because you’re in all those pictures making peepee in your pampers?” “(Squeaky come-down noises).” What? It’s not like I lost the power of speech cuz my humiliation fetish wouldn’t let me stop thinking about all the people who’d be showing their trip pics to their family and friends and all of social media. Unsurpassed sculptural masterpiece in the center, me in the foreground holding tight to Mary’s hand covertly peeing myself … (Shuddering noises). “I think my good girl,” Mary said to me – ya hear that? I’m her good girl! Me! – “deserves a good girl spanking.” The first time we took a took an airplane ride together, we found one of those tags in her bag informing us it had been opened and searched, and, well, we did some hard core packing, if ya get my drift. And me being me and Mary being Mary and, really, we being us, really liked the idea of some TSA agent getting such a thorough look at our toys. Never have we ever since worried about what we packed. And since they sell clothes in Europe pretty much in all the places a pair of travelers would go, and toys being much harder to find and the, uh, fit and personal tastes being harder to match, we traveled prepared any kind of weather … by which I mean sex. Ha! “Mama has to put you over her knee and spank your bare little girl bottom now,” Mary said to me after certain things had been situated in certain places and were vibrating at certain and multiple frequencies. “But I’m going to leave your soggy diaper under you in case you lose control of yourself during your spanking.” I’m so good at so many things. All the things, when you think about it. Really. But Mary being Mary, by which I mean the gay embodiment of celestial perfection I long ago decided to devote my life to, it’s amazing how she can talk about one thing while having one hand do something totally different and the other hand do a secret third thing that’s just … sigh … “It’s okay to have accidents, but if you know then you should tell me. What if you leaked at the museum? Everyone would be staring at the little girl making a puddle …. You’re such a good girl, Momma has to spank your bottom … Cum for me. Show me what a good girl you can be … Look at this diaper … Are you learning your lesson? … Must’ve been very scary having an accident in front of all those people. How’d you get to be so brave? … Until your bottom is bright red … You like that? You like when I press there? Heh, such a good girl.” Honestly, I don’t know if she was talking to me or herself. I don’t need the words; I had all the stimulation I needed. And Mary was sitting on … she was sitting on what she was sitting on and it was going bzzzzzzzzzz, is all you need to know. And then I was well spanked enough and she wasn’t sitting at all but was lying face down while I … Things happened. Fun things. All the fun ever, actually, cuz we’re just that awesome a couple. And when it was over, we fell asleep very sweaty and holding each other cuz we’re in love like that. And for once I woke up first and Mary got to wake up to me stroking her hair for a change. “Hey,” I greeted her. “Hey.” She stretched and squirmed and yawned and I totally get why she says it’s so cute when I wake up all post-coitally and stuff and things. “We need to get going or we’ll miss our reservation for the Medici Chapel.” “Heeheehee! We missed it already.” “We slept right though it?” “Yeah. Guess we needed it.” “You wore me out,” she said and gave me one of those kisses that made me wonder if we were gonna start Round 2. I’m only one Daphne! And how about buying me dinner first? “We need new sheets,” I observed. “Did you wet the bed?” “We got the bed wet, is I think the phrase you’re looking for.” If either of us needed a diaper under her for certain activities … All those tourists out there trying to have an Instagram-worthy vacation, what fools they are. They could be having an OnlyFans-worthy vacation …

Scene #212 Every time I travel overseas, when I wake up there after my first night’s sleep, I never remember where I am. It’s that kinda waking up where your mind is alert before your body, and you know you’re awake but your eyes aren’t open, and you have no clue what time it is or where you are. Whose bed is this? What year is it? Did the spirits really do it all in one night? Who knows! But the one constant, the one thing that tells me all is well and that I may not know where I am but I also know exactly where I am: I’m right next to Mary. Eyelids too heavy to lift, brain to slow to think, but Mary feels exactly the same whether we’re at home or, this time, in Italy. My Mary, mia bella amore. The woman who was so nice but also so friggin mean to me the day before. And I’m not even taking about the shenanigans on the plane or in the airport. We landed in Rome slightly less tired than we would’ve had we flown in economy, and we followed the crowd in the general direction of baggage claim. Totally normal: find an atm to get some euros, go to collect our bags, and go to the metro to catch a train. O, EXCEPT FOR STOPPING ON THE WAY FOR A DIAPER CHANGE! Mary promised me she wasn’t gonna make me wear diapers the whole time, but the ENTIRE first day AND that night she did. Mean! And this might be stretching the meaning for words (but it isn’t!) up to that point constituted the entirety of our trip to that point, so technically she broke her word. Not that I called her on it, but I was thinking about it while she was applying that stupid thing to me in the restroom. It was late afternoon by the time we got to Florence and checked into our hotel. “Come,” she said to me and took me into the bathroom. “Your pampers dry?” “I’m jet lagged and feeling feisty, Mary. Don’t call em that.” “So you’re telling me they’re wet,” she said while she soaped up a face towel with cool water. “Look up for me.” “You like it when I’m exhausted,” I accused her. “It makes you feel even more needed when you take care of me … I feel like I have airplane on me.” “But underneath you’re my pretty little girl. We just gotta scrub the travel away … Feeling better?” “Mhmm. What about you? Can you make it past dinner time?” “Yeah. Awfully crowded out there, wasn’t it?” “Summertime. If we weren’t so desperate for a break, we would’ve waited til the fall.” I actually don’t need breaks so much as changes of scenery, what with me being a lady of leisure now. Mary, though, Mary needed a break big time. Glued to her desk for hours at a time, and she’s the nicest boss, but she was getting so tired I caught her getting a very teeny tiny bit short tempered with a direct report this one time. She never does that, and maybe they deserved it, but I also know Mary doesn’t like being that kinda boss. I took it as my cue to nag her about a vacation (even if it did make me feel like Lucy pestering Ricky to take her to the club), and also to submissive it up more. Seriously helps to de-stress when she’s taking care of me and when she’s smacking my butt repeatedly and hard. I don’t think it counts as bratting when you’re doing it to give your domme a reason to use your butt as a stress ball. I mean, she knows I know it’s naughty to draw on the wall (that’s why I use pencil), so it’s not like she thinks she’s teaching me an overdue lesson or anything … At least I think she knows I know. Cuz how embarrassing would that be, Mary thinking I still need to learn something everyone else knows by age 6. Not coloring on the walls and potty training, the things Mary pretends from time to time I still need to learn. Yep, our marriage is normal. Really. “Lemme check your pants,” Mary said to me. “Lemme check your pants,” I said back even though it wouldn’t have gone anywhere cuz we were way too tired to have sexy time. Makes me nostalgic for the good ol’ days when we were never too tired. Which were never, now that I think on it. We weren’t that young when we met. “You’re just damp,” she said and – get this – rebuttoned my pants. “But I wanna change,” I didn’t whine. You’re never too tired to not whine. That’s why I didn’t whine even though I was really tired and wanted back into panties. Really. “If you just let me take care of your huggies for the rest of today, tomorrow you can use that potty,” she said and pointed to the potty like a game show model gesturing to a prize, which was such a cheap jokes. I mean, like, yeah Mary, you just go ahead and tell yourself you’re on the cutting edge of comedy, ya big meanie. “It’s a toilet,” I didn’t mutter. “You hungry?” “Very, but we can’t eat yet,” I told her. “As soon as I eat something, I’m going to fall asleep.” We ended up walking to down the street from our hotel to what turned out to be Basilica San Lorenzo. Considering how many basilicas and chiese and pievi and catedrali and duomi we ended up visiting, it was a good starter basilica. Hey, ya know what’s a weird feeling? Standing in front of the tomb of a dead Medici wetting your pants. That is a thing that feels weird in every way it can, most of all mentally. I’m peeing next to a casket; o look, a fresco; gee, hope I don’t leak on this 500-year-old porphyry tile slab that costs more than my car; my life is weird. So is my wife, who I swear has like an ageplay radar. Anything ostensibly little, and she just senses it. For the record, of which I am the keeper and your ever true and honest and transparent and accurate recorder of things and deeds, I didn’t pee in the diaper because I was being little. I peed in it because I was being submissive: Mary told me I had to wear and use the diaper; she is my domme, I am her sub; I followed the rules because I am a good rule follower. The best, actually. True story. But does my wife distinguish between little and submissive? Yes but not consistently or always accurately, dammit! “Did you just potty in your pants,” she whispered to me. “Marrrry,” I hissed, “shush!” Telling your domme to shush is a totally okay thing to do even for the best rule following sub there ever was. True story. “I thought I recognized your potty face. Will your diaper hold up through dinner time?” I was looking past Mary when she said it, and I saw this lady (whom I instantly labeled a Karen even though they hadn’t done anything but I resented her anyway), looking at us out of the corner of her eye! O. My. Gawd! That lady heard! She heard! She’s looking cuz she heard! All the blood is draining to my face; I’m gonna stroke out; I’m gonna stroke out and they’re gonna bury me next to that Medici. Tourist dies of embarrassment in church; they buried her under that porphyry slab that cost more than her house. What is even happening? Has meaning lost all meaning?!? I can’t stand for this crap; it’s only our first day; draw a line in the sand and tell Mary no! Tell her she’s being a bad girl! Bad girl Mary! “Nurnensnooger. Nurnensnooger, Mary!” And she knew exactly what I meant! EXACTLY WHAT I MEANT! She didn’t even pretend she didn’t! She just leaned a little closer to me, probably grinning one of her Cheshire Cat grins but I couldn’t see cuz the stroke took my vision, and said only a little more quietly, “I tried my best to whisper. Those renaissance church builders really understood acoustics, huh?” Wipe that smile off your face this instant young lady! Which came out, “Luusifegirico!” And if she thinks she can make up for it just by kissing me on the forehead “(Kiss)” and putting her arm around me “(Sound of arm being put around me)” then she’s … not wrong. I mean, I wouldn’t say she made it up to me, but I would say I wasn’t mad at her. But only because I was too tired to be mad. Not because I have a humiliation fetish that just so happens to go really well what she said. And if you hear otherwise, tell that person they are mistaken and that if they repeat their mistake again you shall fetch them a very sharp blow upon the nose. We left and walked back up the street our hotel was on and stopped in a trattoria that looked good. I mean, it’s Tuscany so the food is pretty much all good. Sure, some places look fancier and the places farther from the big piazzas supposedly serve better food at lower prices to a more local clientele, but our priority was speed and proximity to our hotel. Eat, unpack, shower, sleep for twelve hours. Know what’s a nice reminder that no matter how good you think you’re getting at a language, you really aren’t? When you order in Italian and the waiter answers back in English. We had pizza (and I’m sooooo good at pronouncing ‘pizza’!). I don’t know why the pizza in Italy is so good; I’ve almost never had bad pizza in Italy; I’m guessing the freshness of the ingredients is why. The mozzarella forms this milky pool on top that blends with the fat from the salame and if they just poured that off into a cup, I’d pay €8 for it. True story. “The wine was a mistake,” I yawned. “Go right through your tummy and out into your pants?” “I (yawn) swear to (yawn) god, Mary.” “We have one more stop to make and then we can go back.” “Where?” “The pharmacy.” We walked to the end of the block, made a right, went two more blocks, made another right, and there was the pharmacy. The man greeted us, naturally, in Italian, and while I contented myself to look around the store and notice all the differences between what an Italian pharmacy carries versus an American, Mary was showing something on her phone to the man. He said something, and Mary said, “Piccola,” and I thought if Mary ever learns to speak Italian fluently I’ll never let her stop saying pretty words to me. And then I turned around. Gobsmacked. Like some smacked me right in my gob, and I don’t even know what one of those is. Mary, the woman who claims to love me more than anything and says she takes care of me and that I am the sun in her solar system was in the process of buying … adult diapers. So I stepped right up next to her and said (quietly cuz I have manners dammit!), “Whuh whoduh frup for serious are you serious right here right now?!?” To which Mary said (in the black speech of Sauron cuz I guess she’s just done pretending to be anything other than evil), “What? We couldn’t pack you a whole two weeks’ worth … Isn’t it interesting that they keep diapers for girls like you behind the counter here?” I was in damage control mode so I let that go even though I wanted to pull a Jesus-in-the-temple right then and there. The man gave Mary her change, which makes me wonder if maybe I should even let Mary have money ever again, and she picked up the bag and started walking away. “Marrryyy!” “Need a change before we leave?” “Bag! Hide them,” I panic-whispered. “They’re already in a bag, sweetums. And see, they even have this carrying handle. C’mon.” We got outside, Mary carrying a bag of adult diapers (adulto pannolini and dammit it all to friggin heccin heck and stuff!) right down the street past all these people! And I just had to go with her! “You planned this,” I accused her. “You … you … plotter! Nefarious! Notorious!” “For a little girl who still needs diapers, you sure know a lot of big words.” “Treasonous! And would you finally shush!” “I don’t think anyone can hear us over the vespas.” “Which is just how you planned it!” J’accuse, mon ami! “I looked up the hotel you booked, checked Maps for the nearest pharmacy, found their website, searched it for Daphne-sized diapers, and bookmarked the page to page to show the pharmacist just in case. If you wanna call that planning and be all histrionic about it, I guess yeah, I planned it.” “Stop being so proud of yourself.” “I did it for every hotel we’re staying in too,” she said so smugly I wanted to … to … to unsmug her good! “Could you please hide those or something?” I. Even. Said. Please. Because. I. Am. So. Much. More. Polite. And. Considerate. Than. Mary! “Yeah, Daff, I’ll hide a big square bag the size of a small suitcase under my shirt; that’ll draw less attention.” “And stop calling me unreasonable.” “I didn’t.” “You didn’t have to.” “Hold up.” O my gawd what now what now what now!?? “Want some gelato,” she asked me like she wasn’t carrying a bag of diapers. “What? Not now I heccin don’t,” I said to the batshit crazy person I married. “Well, I do. Hold these.” Stupid politeness reflexes making my arm just go out all on its own and hold the stupid bag of diapers. And dammit but Mary knows me cuz she ordered me some gelato too. And dammit but I want Mary to say cioccolato fondente too me in her sexy voice over and over and over again. “Put that on the ground at least,” I ordered her when she sat down with our gelato and put the bag right on the table. “No.” How dare she disobey my orders! Insubordinate! Obstinate! Meanie head! She continued cuz her defiance knows no bounds, “I want everyone to see. I want them to know I love my wife so much, I don’t even mind changing her diapers. But of course no one is paying attention, silly goose. Most don’t even know what’s in that bag.” “It has a diaper on it,” I spat through my teeth. “If they see it, which they won’t because they’re too busy doing their own thing.” “We are in one of the people-watching capitals of the world, Mary. Everyone comes out for the passeggiata just to see each other.” “You’re so knowledgeable. You’re like a little crinkly tour guide. A tour guide with a messy face.” Which is when she spit on a napkin and started wiping my face. Just … great. So I told her, “Gelato melts faster than ice cream because it’s made of milk instead of cream.” So, I, uh, yeah, put her right in her place. “Which is also why the flavor is more intense; there’s less fat to coat the tongue and block the taste buds.” Take … that? “My little foodie tour guide … Hey, Daffy?” “Yeah?” “Ya know that spot on your collarbone that turns red when you’re aroused? How big is it right now?” I just glared at her. “Is it this big?” She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. Glare. “Is it this big?” Glarier glare. She made a circle with both her hands. “Is it this big?” Snarl. She threw her arms all the way out. “Marrry.” “Sooooo big,” she sang like she was asking a toddler how big they are which she has way too much fun doing to me. “And it’s awful,” I told her because, yeah, the spot was huge and it was awful. Awful! “And why is it awful?” “Cuz I’m too tired to do anything about it.” So. Damn. Aroused. “Wanna me to fuck you in the shower? I’ll do all the work.” “… Yes, but don’t read anything into it.” “We’ll get you all fucked and into a fresh diaper, and tucked in bed.” O. My. God. Just O. My. Gawd. “I’m gonna throw a tantrum.” “Save it for the shower.” “Marrry!”

Scene #211 “Passengers on flight 315, we will begin boarding in about 10 minutes.” I know I do most of the talking in my diary with Mary a close second, but that was the gate agent. Or as I like to call them, the agent of the gate. Agent Of The Gate. Sounds like someone who guards a castle or the entrance to another world in a fantasy novel, and sometimes my life is like a fantasy novel. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘off in her little fantasy world.’ You’d be off in a fantasy world too if you had Mary, who was taking me on a trip. An awesome trip! Been so long since we left the country and I was just o so excited that for once my laconic self was downright chatty. “Do you remember what you called me on the first airplane trip we took together,” I asked Mary. “Um…” “O c’mon, you gotta remember.” “Daph … ne?” “You called me a carry-on-the-plane size girlfriend. It was very cute. You’ve been cute and kinda derpy the whole time you’ve known me.” “Do you remember what we did as soon as we got in our condo?” “I think so, but maybe you can tell me anyway.” “All passengers who need extra time boarding may board now.” “They’re gonna board us next,” Mary said. “You can board me whenever you’re ready,” I said cuz I’ve been derpy and prone to derpy sexual innuendo since I’ve known Mary. Two derps being derpy together. Sigh … And how did Mary respond to my very clever suggestion? Well, I shall tell you. She said, “Do you need your diaper changed before we get on?” She’s not cute and derpy all the time. She thinks she’s being cute with questions like that, but actually they’re mean and spiteful and other bad things. “No, for the tenth time since we got through security. And did I mention how incredibly unfair it was to make me wear one of these through security?” “It wasn’t mean at all. I knew they’d send us through a metal detector and not the body scan things.” “It’s called a millimeter wave scanner.” “I was dumbing it down for you cuz you’re a little girl.” “Marrrry!” It’s gonna be such a long flight. “When you go through TSA Pre-Check, you go through a regular metal detector.” “And instead of telling me that, you let me get anxious and red faced and did I mention anxious?” “And who held your hand through the line and helped you be brave?” “What you have is a being needed kink. That’s what you have,” I told her very haughtily. I was feeling haughty, I guess. I’m used to feeling bratty (though I’ve only been bratty once in my whole life; really), and sometimes I feel sassy (which is why the love of my life calls me a sassmuffin, which aren’t actual muffins if you ever go into a bakery and try to order one at your wife’s suggestion, which is a thing I never did and that she hasn’t reminded me of at least once a year ever since; really), and once I even got mouthy (true story). “I have a kink for blushy redheads who cling to me when they’re nervous, and lucky for me I married one.” “You took unfair advantage of the airport security process … which is designed to keep us safe. You should take it much more seriously … and patriotically.” She chortled at that. At me! Frigging chortler not taking security seriously. Hmmph! “How’s your bottom feel,” is what she asked instead of acknowledging the rightness of my position and dashing off a letter of apology to TSA. “It hurts.” Okay, maybe it just tingled a little. “It doesn’t hurt.” “No, but still. Was that really necessary?” “It was just enough to remind you to be a good girl on the plane. It’s twelve hours. What if there’s turbulence? What if a flight attendant won’t let me spank you in the galley? A preemptive spanking in the airport has been shown to decrease the risk of naughty little girls making bad choices on airplanes by almost 30%. I showed you the article.” “Hmmph! You had ChatGPT write that ‘research.’” “And it gave you another chance to practice changing your own diaper.” Mary smirked when she said that. Didn’t even try to hide it. All week long she’s been making me wear diapers at least part of the day and supervising me changing myself. She made a big production out of it too. “Daffy,” she called out all dulcet toned like she’s made of sugar and sunshine, “could you come downstairs? I need to talk about our trip.” I was there in a flash cuz I’m speedy and because ‘I need to talk’ is an ominous phrase. “We’re still going, right?” “Of course. Come sit next to me.” “She sat down with a growing suspicion,” I quietly narrated to myself. “No need to be suspicious.” “Our heroine forgets sometimes that Mary has ears like a German Shepherd.” “This is serious,” she said, which made me take it seriously. “We’re going to be going to a lot of museums, and we’ll be in crowds and unfamiliar places.” “I’ll wear my mask, like I said.” It was actually my idea cuz even pre-Covid every time I took a trip abroad I came back with some exotic upper respiratory thing. One type a woman coughed on the back of my head in line for a museum and I was sick by the time I got back to the hotel and stayed sick for three months. True story. “I know, sweetie, I know. What I want to talk about is making good choices.” That’s when I rolled my eyes so hard I gave myself a little headache. “We’re gonna be around priceless works of art and a lot of people. You need to be on your best behavior.” “We’re in luck cuz I’m always on my best behavior.” “Well, I know you try your best. There will be lots of dangers for a little girl like you on our trip.” “I’m not a little girl.” But like she even heard me. “You could get hit by a car. You could get lost. You could get stolen.” “Well, I am highly portable.” Cuz I’m small and light, which is also how Mary can yank me over her lap so fast all I can do about it is go, “Woah! Marrrry!” SPANK! “Are going to listen and take this seriously, or do I need to spank your bare bottom for you first?” “I’ll listen!” SPANK! “And you can do it without the sass. We’re going to be in unfamiliar, crowded places full of strangers and breakables. When I tell you we need to hold hands, you will hold onto my hand. Is that clear?” “Yes.” Gotta tell y’all, holding Mary’s hand is not, like, a burden to me. I kinda really sorta definitely enjoy it o so very much. You might even say holding hands is how our relationship started. I mean, her yanking me off my feet and over her knee without so much as a ‘wanna spanking?’ is how it actually started technically, but for polite company, it was love at first handhold. “And I need to know where you are at all times. I’m putting an AirTag in your pocket every single day so I can track you on my phone.” We’re already signed up on Find My Friend. I think she just likes the idea of tagging me; if we were into puppy play, I’m pretty sure she’d have had me chipped by now. “You’re going to stay within ten feet of me when we’re out in crowded places.” “Okay.” “And you’re going to use your inside voice when we’re inside.” “Yeah.” Duh; that’s why it’s called an inside voice. “And you get one warning about bad choices. Second time, I’m spanking your bottom. I’m bringing the hairbrush and your paddle.” It’s. Not. Mine! It’s hers!!! She uses it; I get it used on me. It’s hers! “I’ll take you to the nearest lady’s room, pull your pants down, and turn you over my knee. Capisc?” “Capisco.” “Daphne Ann?” “That means ‘I understand.’” “O. Good girl doing your Italian lessons.” As I was getting off her lap, I rolled my eyes so hard the other way that my headache went away. Weird. Or maybe it wasn’t that but that she said the magic words, i.e., she called me a good girl and I went squeeeee inside (Squeeeeee! Mary thinks I’m a good girl! Life is so satisfying and awesome! Squeeeeee!) And I don’t mind her rules. For firsties, I knew she was gonna relax those rules cuz it’s a lot of work enforcing them. For twosies, I’m an excellent rule follower. Even when I’m breaking rules, which I never do, I almost always know I’m breaking them, which means it doesn’t count as rule breaking because reasons. Mary disagrees, but I only go along with it to humor her and cuz she makes me. But she only makes me cuz I leave her no choice, for instance when I say things like, ‘O yeah? Make me!’ and cuz many years ago during our courtship I specifically said, ‘I want you to be in charge. You have my consent from here on out to set the rules and discipline me when I don’t follow them.’ It was something to that effect, anyway. “One other thing. Your diapers on the trip.” “But we’re not taking any diapers to Europe,” is what I said cuz it seemed wiser than throwing a temper tantrum (which would’ve been my first tantrum ever cuz I’m o so very good inside and out; really). “We’re crossing a lot of time zones. Do you know what time zones are?” Me giving Mary my not-impressed-face. “Well, it’s going to be a big adjustment, and it’s gonna make you feel funny. It’s called jet lag.” “You can’t be serious. I’m not wearing diapers the whole time.” “I didn’t say the whole time, but if I did, you would yes. Do you know why?” I knew but didn’t wanna say. “Daphne Ann Taylor?” Ooo, my whole name; she means business. “Cuz you said so.” “That’s right. We have long flights, long train rides, long lines, jet lag, and beds we don’t own. You’ll wear a diaper when I decide you need to wear a diaper, and you won’t argue with me when I decide, when I check your diaper, or when I change your diaper. Clear?” I was not, as some people who are mean and dishonest and are always traducing my sterling character (which is never less than dignified and poised and the very picture of equanimity yet never coming off as aloof) making my poutiest pouty face ever. Nor did I cop an attitude or have an attitude; nor did my ‘yes’ in response drip with attitude. Except the attitude of grace, for I am graceful in all my movements and mannerisms. Really. Mary made one of her I have-to-make-her-understand faces. “Let’s go,” she said, taking me by the wrist and leading me somewhere. I didn’t drag my feet or try to pull my wrist back or whine, “No! I don’t wanna spanking!” But if I did, I did so gracefully. And I was poised the whole time. And equanimous. And stuff. And things too. “And you won’t get a spanking if you mind me.” Also “I’ll mind!” “I know you will.” Into the kitchen she pulled me, where that damn wooden spoon lives. The Balsa Bitch, I always call her when no one with permission to spank me is around or ever cuz some of them hear seemingly every naughty (so they say) word I utter. “Stand here, hands on your head.” Who’s a good rule follower? Me! So I stood there with my hands on my head like a sucker while Mary turned the tap on. “I didn’t say any bad words! Please don’t wash my mouth out! Pleeeeeeasee?” Good thing I didn’t beg cuz that would’ve been pathetic and stuff. “Hold perfectly still,” Mary said. In the years I’ve known Mary, I’ve learned that she’s a ninja, a coyote, a sorceress, a so-and-so, a lawyer, and a politician. Apparently she’s also a wild west gun fighter cuz she yanked the nozzle from the sink, spun, and fired right at my shorts. “Mary!” “Hold. Still.” “Are you crazy?” Satisfied with my wetness, she put the nozzle back, and like she was the sane, reasonable person in the room (which she wasn’t and hardly ever is!) said to me, “How do you feel right now with wet pants and warm water running down your legs onto the floor?” Well, good thing I’m a wordsmith cuz I was feeling o so many emotions and had all the words I needed to describe them: confused, upset, miffed, and wet. Especially wet. “Wet,” I said (and definitely dripping with attitude that time). “Imagine that’s little girl pee that just came gushing out of you while standing in line for a museum cuz you just couldn’t hold your tinkles anymore?” “All those people would be staring at you, and they’d be a lot less understanding than me. I understand you’re just a little girl. They’d see a grown woman who just wet her pants!” “I’m not a little girl!” “What’s worse – having an accident in a diaper where no one can see, or having an accident in your undies so everyone can see?” “I’m not gonna have accidents!” “O, sweetie,” she said like the most loving, understanding person ever and stepped right through the puddle she made to give me the most loving hug ever. “I wanna believe that too. I really do. But we can’t take that chance. Every diaper I put you in comes off wet.” “Cuz you make me,” I didn’t say pleadingly with my emotions so on edge I was on the edge of weepiness. “Whatever you have to believe to be brave, Daffodil. You know I don’t judge you. I’m just trying to protect you, and I’m going to even if it makes you mad at me sometimes.” “Marrry!” “That’s right; your Mary will always keep you safe.” And I didn’t silently give in. Not true. If you hear otherwise, firmly correct that person with a throat punch. What really happened is I went, “Hmmph! Fine. Friggin’ fine.” See? Nothing silent about it at all, which would just be pathetic. Mary stepped back, keeping a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll see it’s really for the best.” “But I won’t be in diapers the entire trip, right?” “No, just when it might be tricky to take you to the restroom and at bedtime, at least until we get adjusted to the time change.” “Promise?” “I promise.” And then she actually held out a pinky; what I could do but wrap my pinky around hers? One might say doing so constitutes my agreement, but I prefer to think of it as constituting her commitment. I mean, it’s a pinky promise! That means something! Or at least it does among honorable people, and Mary is nothing if not stalwart. “Now,” she continued cuz of course she wasn’t done with her farce, “we might go places where there isn’t a restroom I can help you in. Probably not, but it could happen, and it will for sure happen on the plane. You’ve never changed your own diaper. It’s just not something little girls like you should be doing, but we can’t have you sitting in a wet diaper the whole plane ride.” “I have to wear it on the plane?!?” “Of course, hun. You’re gonna be going to sleep on the plane, and your bedwetting has gotten to be four and even five times a week.” “Cuz you make me wear diapers four and even five nights a week sometimes.” “I know it’ll be scary and uncomfortable for you, but you’re probably going to have to change your own diaper in the airplane lavatory.” Years of this ridiculousness and I’ve never changed my own diaper. The reasons are several. Firstly, they’re not my diapers; they are Mary’s diapers, and it just so happens I’m the one wearing and wetting them. Item B, Mary has made it abundantly clear that if I ever take (breathing through my teeth right now using the first-person possessive for the sake of literary clarity) my diaper off, she’ll spank me with the bath brush until I stop crying. Holy heccin butt wounds. And reason nope-never-absolutely-not-I-refuse-I-reject-I-disown-I-repudiate, changing my diaper myself would be actively participating in the diaper stuff, which could be (and would deliberately be) misconstrued by Mary as accepting – nay, enjoying – the diapers. “I don’t want to put them on myself,” I said. “I will if I can, but it might not be possible.” “Then I just won’t wear a diaper on the plane.” She didn’t even reply to that verbally. She just tightened her lips at me. “Fine, but I won’t wet it.” “It’s twelve hours. I could double diaper you in extra thick diapers, but it would be obvious to everyone you’re a little girl who still needs potty pants. Would you like to do that instead?” “Urgh! Fine, I’ll change myself.” “When I say to.” “What?” “I’ll check your diaper, and when I say you need a change, I’ll send you off to the lavatory with a new diaper.” I didn’t respond verbally to that. I just briefly sighed and slowly blinked as if to say, ‘lord give me patience with this one.’ “Can I go change into dry clothes now?” “Yes, living room.” Longer sigh; closed my eyes; took a deep breath. “Why?” Cuz my clothes live in the bedroom. “To practice diapering yourself, silly. You don’t wanna wing it, pardon the pun, at 35,000 feet.” “You’ve been planning that pun for days; I know it.” “Come,” she said, this time taking me by the hand and walking me back to the living room (at least I’d stopped dripping; #winning?) straight to the side table. “We’re gonna pack you a little changing kit in your carry-on with fresh diapers, wipes, and a little powder.” She bent down to pick up the basket of changing supplies she’s kept in the living room lo these past years. “Alright; let’s see what you got.” “Here? In front of you?” “Of course, silly goose. If I can change your diaper, I can certainly watch you diaper yourself. First step is taking off those wet shorts and undies. I know you can do that part yourself.” If my life were an open-world video game, there’d be stats for miles walked, miles driven, and hours spent bare bottomed in our living room. I took my wet things off and unfolded a diaper. “Gotta wipe first, silly.” “But I’m already clean.” I was already clean and then I got cleaner when she hosed me down. If she thought I was clean up that puddle (that Suzy was probably rolling in), she had another thing coming. TBD what that thing was gonna be, but it was on it’s way. Really. “But you’ll be coming out of a peepee diaper when you change yourself. If it will help, you can pull your wet shorts and undies back up, and I’ll watch you wet them in the bathtub. Will that help? Wetting your underpants so it feels more real? Cuz we can go do that.” “No.” “Then show Mommy how you wipe yourself.” Mary talks about that little spot on my color bone that turns red when I’m aroused. Well, it was under my shirt so we’ll never know. But Mary’s red cheeks, her lascivious, she-wolf grin – she was getting her jollies watch me change into a diaper. She literally leaned forward when I was wiping myself as if to get a better view. All she didn’t do was lick her lips “Don’t forget your bottom,” she added ever so helpfully. I didn’t even point out that I have never and will never do that in a diaper cuz she would’ve said something like. ‘You never know’ or ‘and let’s hope it stays that but just to be safe’ or ‘a just-in-case wipe is always good for a little girl like you, unless you want me to start wiping you every time you use the potty.’ I know she would’ve said one or all of those things (and other things!) cuz she always always always wipes my butt when she changes my diaper. And the wipe has always always always shown how unnecessary that is except for this couple times when Mary decided to be extra thorough (meaning spear me on the end of her wipe-wrapped finger) or this one time I don’t wanna talk about so shut up. “Might help to squat down so you can reach all the way back, baby.” I was on the verge of being on the verge of tears, and worst of all, my humiliation kink didn’t hate it as much as the rest of me did. “Now a little powder on your bumbum, or you can sprinkle some on your diaper.” I did the former and wiped my hand on my shirt, leaving a powder print. Won’t do that again. Mary gets zero credit for making me practice just cuz I learned something; in fact, she gets zero credit for anything ever. “Putting your diaper on yourself is the tricky part. You can do it sitting down on the toilet lid, but I think it’ll be easier if you’re standing.” She got up and steered me – diaper in hand, lady parts out – to the wall. “What you do is unfold the diaper …” I did. “Bring it behind you and hold it against the wall with your back …” I did. “And bring it between your legs.” I did. “Now pull it up and see if it’s too high or too low.” “Um, I think it’s …” “Lemme,” she said and took the front of the diaper, pressing it to my waist. “You got it on the first try! High five!” It. Was. A. Reflex! Of course I didn’t mean to high five her for getting the diaper right the first time. “Okay,” she said, “you finish up.” I unfolded the wings. “Um, which tapes do I do first?” “Always the bottom ones. Right, left. And then the top ones; left, right. And you’ll get a better fit if you use your left hand to do the right one on top.” And done. No celebrating. “Lemme check how you did.” She checked the waist, she checked the leg gathers, and she patted my butt just cuz. “Feels good to me. How does it feel to you?” “Fine.” “Not too tight or too loose?” “No.” “Then you did a very good job, sweetie! Good girl!” Don’t squee don’t squee don’t squee … Squeeeeeeeeeeeee! Dammit! Stupid internal monologue betraying me just cuz the one and only Mary, love of my life, called me a good girl. And why is my lip trembling? Wtf, body? She’s been teasing you for a half-hour and made you do something you’ve gone refused to do for three years and it’s just the start of having to wear a diaper on our European vacation. O yeah. Should I cry? Yes, but only a little sniffle and a tear or two. So I did that. “Aww, my baby girl is having some big feelings.” She put her arm around me and steered me to the couch, sitting down so I could flop myself into her lap and bury my head in her chest. “You were very brave,” she said and kissed my hair. “And you did such a good job. I know you like Mommy changing your diapers, so you’ll only have to do it yourself when it’s absolutely necessary.” Ya know, that didn’t help as much as maybe she thought it would. “I don’t wanna wear diapers on our trip. I’m not …” I choked on the words “What? Use your words, honey.” “I’m not a … a diaper girl.” “You think only a diaper girl would wear diapers on her vacation? You’ve worn diapers on our vacations before.” “But not overseas.” “I promise you it doesn’t make you a diaper girl. It makes you my good little girl for doing as you’re told, and I know you like doing what I tell you.” “Yeah.” And you like it more when you do something you don’t wanna do because I told you to.” “Yeah.” “So it’ll be fun. I promise I’ll be very mindful of your feelings. Everything will be fine.” “(Sniffle).” “What that a yes sniffle?” “Mhmm.” “Mommy’s good girl … And even if it did make you a diaper girl, which it doesn’t, but even if it did, that would be okay. Do you know why?” I already disagree with the very premise of that question; politeness more than curiosity required I ask, “Why?” “Because I’ll always make sure everything is okay. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” Mary, my mobile safe space. And the safest space is where I was right then, in her lap with my face buried in her chest, her arms around me and her cheek resting against the top of my head. It’s a pretty awesome space. “Okay … Mommy.” I looked up at her, and she was smiling one of her this-smile-of-perfect-contentment-doesn’t-reveal-how-happy-I-am-because-I-get-to-live-my-life-with-Daphne smiles. Pretty sure only ageplay can be so wholesome and dirty at the same time. I mean, a couple minutes ago she was telling me to squat so I could wipe my butt better, which she was only doing cuz sometimes she might not be able to do it for me, and now she was making eyes at me like I’m the whole universe and a bag of chips. I mean, I am, but she doesn’t make those eyes at me all the time (I think cuz she thinks it would go to my head or something, which is just silly since I’m the humblest person to ever be so awesome and so humble). I started to get up so I could throw those wipes (which were sitting on top my wet shorts - ew) away and put my clothes in the washer. “Where you going?” “To clean up.” “I got one more rule to tell you.” “Okay.” “Our hotel rooms will have bidets in them. They are not toys.” “Ewwww! Mary, we have a bidet attachment upstairs.” And from experience, I’ll just say that if you’re gonna play with one, the water pressure in ours beats anything I’ve sat on in Europe. First time I tried it after it was installed I wasn’t sitting on it, which was good cuz I’d have done myself a permanent injury (it shot clear across the bathroom!). “And I have a surprise for you.” “Is it the kind I’ll like?” You won’t believe this, but sometimes her surprises are not very welcome. True story. “I got us upgraded to first class.” “Omuhgawd, really!?! How?” “We’ve been collecting points for more than three years and haven’t spent any.” First class on a domestic flight is not a big whoop. But on an overseas flight? Each seat is a little pod, and the seats lay flat and the blankets and pillows are better and there’s a gift bag of fancy lotions and the meals are better and there’s a sundae cart and the snacks are name-brand and the alcohol is complimentary and did I mention the seats lay flat so you can actually sleep and not wake up in pain!?! “This is so awesome,” I said when we’d boarded and they’d already given us a flute of champagne before hardly anyone else had even sat down. Then I whispered, “Do you think the other people in first class know we didn’t pay for it?” “Aww! Here I am at the birth of a brand new insecurity, and it’s so cute,” she said to me. “If it makes you feel better, we can afford it; we just spend our money more wisely.” I doubtfully asked, “Really? We can afford it?” “Uh-huh.” “Are we … rich?” Did I miss us getting rich? I miss some details but I’m pretty good at the big picture (and the details) and like to think I’d notice getting rich. “No, sweetie, we’re not rich.” “Then since when can we afford to fly first class overseas?” “Since I got a big promotion two years ago. Our lifestyle didn’t change; we didn’t buy a big house or fancy cars. How is this news to you? You look at our bank accounts.” “I just … never really thought about it that way.” “Must be nice being a little girl and not having to think about those things,” she teased me. “You didn’t answer me at the gate when I asked if you remembered our first trip together, what we did when we got to the hotel.” I remember. “Our first long trip; our first condo rental,” I observed cuz I’m clever like that. “Unpack first or go the grocery store first?” I was guessing unpack cuz she seems like the type and because she was rooting around in her suitcase already. She turned to me holding a paddle I’d never seen before, at least half an inch thick. I can’t remember if I gulped like in a cartoon or if I just said gulp cuz sometimes I recite my sound effects instead of making them. “This is a big step for us,” Mary said, sitting on a bar stool moment later with me dangled over her lap. “I gotta get a stool for my apartment; I love having you so you can’t touch the floor.” Which is the origin of that. “Big step,” I agreed. “Last week you said you wanted me to discipline you for real, an actual domestic discipline relationship with me in charge of why, when, and how you get spanked, and any other consequence I think you need. Remember?” Remember? Heck! Waiting on pins and needles for her answer! “Uh-huh.” “I’m willing to do that for you, but like I said when you asked, that means sometimes you’ll get spanked when you don’t wanna be, harder and longer than you wanna be, and for any reason I say or no reason at all. Are you still okay with that?” “Yes.” Gawd yes! Meg-Ryan-in-When-Harry-Met-Sally YES! “It’ll hurt a lot sometimes (SPANK!). It won’t be easy sometimes (SPANK!). It might seem unfair sometimes (SPANK!).” Am I crying already? Really? Yes really! That paddle friggin hurts! How much does it weigh!?! I mean, I’d been spanked by Mary when she was trying to make a point before, but damnnnn! “You need spankings, don’t you,” she asked me while paddling my bottom like a canoe. “(Sob sob sucking-in-air) Yes!” “You need this spanking, because I say you do, don’t you?” “Yes!” “When you’re naughty or make bad choices, I’m going to spank your bottom. You know that, don’t you?” She took some of the noises I was making for yes, I guess. “Bare bottom, over my knee. If you need a spanking, I’ll give you one. I’ll spank until you’re crying and kicking like a little girl. I’ll spank you on the spot if I decide an on-the-spot spanking is called for, and I’ll spank you again when we get home. You’ll learn to be the best-behaved girl there ever was or you’ll have a bruised butt every single day. And if other people find out – if people see your bright red butt on the beach this week or hear you crying through a spanking like you’re doing right now, then that’s just what will have to happen. Cuz you know I’ll be strict; I’ll spank hard; and I’ll spank as often as you need it to be the happy, good girl I know you are.” I left out the SPANK!s but they were there, like a hundred of them, and I was carrying on like a lesbian much taller and stronger than myself was beating my butt with a piece of tree cuz that’s what was happening. I sobbed over her knee for a good minute before I got myself under control. She was rubbing my butt, patiently waiting for me to be ready to talk. “So,” she said, “do you still want a full-time domestic discipline relationship?” “On one condition,” I choked out, tears still streaming down my face. “I get to throw that paddle in the ocean!” “Okay. But that’s the very last decision you get to make about your spankings so long as we’re together, unless you take back your consent.” “Okay.” “Every trip is kind of an anniversary because of that,” I said. “And this one is for our actual anniversary.” I went in for a kiss cuz I’m romantic like that and also a total Mary stan, but she was snagging the flight attendant’s attention before she could walk by. “Excuse me,” she said, dropping her voice to a stage whisper, “is there a disabled lavatory on board? Sometimes my wife needs help in the bathroom.” The attendant politely didn’t look at me so I got to turn tomato colored in the semi-privacy if my pod. Hmmph. “Yes, in both aisles. It’s the first lavatory in coach. If she needs it urgently and there’s a line, just buzz me.” “Thank you,” she said before turning back to me as the flight attendant walked on. “All that practice and you might not have to change your own diaper this trip after all.” “So. Mean.” She’s gonna take advantage of the ambient noise in every plane, airport, and crowded space to say stuff like that to me in public for two heccin weeks! “Ya know,” she said all faux nonchalantly, “after dinner is served and the cabin lights are off, if I got caught with my hand up your skirt, I’d just tell them I was checking your diaper.” O. My. Gawd. I hafta to respond to that quickly and clearly. “Germin flooperer!” “It’s so cute when you’re too flustered to make words. Just make sure you at least try cuz if you start saying ‘keyboard smash’ I’ll have to put your paci in your mouth every time I want to get you flustered. I brought your paci, by the way, if you want it during the flight.” “It’s gonna be a long flight,” I observed to no one. “It’ll be over before you know it. After dinner, we’ll get your pampers changed, and then Mommy will tuck you in with a movie until you fall asleep.” “Do you, um, think I can fit in your seat?” “We’ll try when it’s bedtime, but you might be too big to be a lap child.” “Hoosen hemfin.” “I know. Mommy knows.”

Scene #210 So here’s how this went. “Um, Mary,” I said to Mary in such a way that the ‘um’ didn’t betray any nervousness which I wasn’t even feeling, “I, um, made you, um, a uh, card … for Mother’s Day. Just cuz, uh, I thought it would be, um, sorta sweet and funny … mostly funny, like irony and stuff and … “O no; no; don’t start crying. It’s nothing. It’s … No crying! Mary, It’s not even a oooof! “Okay, you’re hugging me, which is okay, but, um, a little tight … Mary? Mary? Ma … (sound of Mary kissing me all over my face). “Mar … MMMM (sound of Mary almost suffocating me with her tongue).” “You are so sweet,” she said to me when she released me from her anaconda grip of steel. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. Where are we going?” “You know that thing you like that I’m kinda iffy on? We’re gonna go do that.” “R-really? Is it okay if I don’t call you ‘mommy’ during that?” “Please don’t … You are gonna be walking funny by dinner time, Daffodil.” I’ve long suspected Mary can predict the future and I was right and stuff. Wow.