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.

Scene #209 “I am so mad at you,” Mary said to me. “Do you understand? Not disappointed. I am actually mad at you.” I’m very wise, ya know, like I have wisdom and stuff? I was drawing upon that wisdom when I didn’t answer her question even though, yes, I did understand cuz she had me by my elbow kinda hard as she marched me up the stairs. But I kinda sorta knew when I did what I did that she’d be super mad about it. I just decided to do it anyway. And Mary’s not dumb. She knew that I knew she’d be mad and that I did it despite that, which probably explains why after she parked me in the corner she went into the bathroom and (dammit!) got the bath brush. It should be banned; I think the United Nations went so far as to designate it a weapon of ass destruction, but like Mary even listens to intergovernmental organizations. Behind me, Mary kept making these noises like she was about to start lecturing me at a high volume and rapid cadence, but she kept cutting herself off after half a syllable. In other circumstances, I would’ve been pleading not to get the bath brush and maybe, if I were feeling the right combination of bratty, sassy, wronged, and righteous, arguing with her. But like I said, I knew I was way in the wrong. I stood in my time out and didn’t interrupt Mary’s not-quite-a-tirade. Depending on how you use time to mark events, either this whole thing started when I hired a landscaping company to install a sprinkler system in our yard and gardens without asking or telling Mary, or when she found out, which happened five minutes prior to my corner time when she glanced up from her work computer and strangers team digging a hole in the yard. A terse exchange of words followed in which I verified that, yes, I hired them; no, I didn’t ask permission to alter our home or break the spending limit; yes, it was expensive; and no, we couldn’t undo it cuz I signed a contract and gave them half the cost as a deposit. Mary was pacing behind me making her I’m-so-angry-I’m-speechless sounds for about two minutes, and when she stopped, even before she said anything, I wished my butt a fond farewell. So long, girl. It’s been a heckuva party. I wasn’t scared. At least not until Mary said, “No. After.” “What? What after?” “We’ll talk about this after your spanking,” she almost hissed but it was too loud for a hiss. Like, she invented a whole new tone of voice right on the spot, and not a fun one. “You should calm down first,” I helpfully (hopefully) suggested. First rule of disciplinary spanking is don’t spank when you’re mad. “I’m calm.” “Um, are you sure?” “Come over to me.” “Mary?” She did one of those forceful sighs that says patience is about to be a thing of the past. “Daphne Ann, walk your butt over here right now.” O, so like, right now? Um, okay … Dammit! I got within arm’s reach and was naked from the waist down so fast I think she did a magic trick. That would be so like Mary, learning magic tricks to de-pants me. I must’ve looked (what’s the understated word for scared?) distressed cuz she said to me, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Kinda silly when you think about it; she was so going to hurt me. But she wasn’t going to injure me. Count on Mary to be so self-possessed mere moments after getting past her angry muttering. “Lie down on the bed, on your back.” “Buh … Does it have to be the diaper position?” And there’s Mary’s this-is-the-worst-time-ever-to-say-or-do-anything-except-what-you’re-told face. It’s all in the eyes. And the pursed lips. And way she managed to scowl with her whole head. How does she even do that? I gave myself a quick pep talk. I said to myself, I said, Self, you knew this would happen. You didn’t know it would be the bath brush, but you were pretty sure. You knew enough, and you did it anyway, and you still think it’s worth it. Two weeks from now, when your butt is back to its normal color and it doesn’t hurt to sit anymore, you’ll be laying in the sun admiring your flowers that will look so much better because of the sprinkler. Go to your happy place. (*insert harp music) Happy place. Happy place. Well, that was a flawed pain management strategy. My happy place is anywhere Mary is and especially our bedroom. I was literally in my happy place, and lemme tell ya, neither of us was happy. But I was determined to take my consequence with the stoicism and poise I’m known for. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘I bet those ancient Greek stoics would have a lot to say about her.’ I was even gonna hold my legs up for her, but she got there first. But if she beat me to that, raising my ankles so high she had spanking access to my whole butt, I beat her to tears. I was crying way before (fraction of a second) the bath brush even connected the first time. It was just nerves; nerves, and know that while I had my reasons, it really was a crummy thing to do. Neither of us was especially verbal. I let out some cry-inflected ows, and Mary let the brush do all her talking. It’s … quite an orator. If the trick to getting your point across is repetition, it’s the Cicero of spanking implements cuz I understood exactly what it was trying to convey (scratch that – it didn’t try; it just conveyed) the first time and proceeded to say it about thirty more times for emphasis. And I was rapt. It had my total attention. I was glued to my seat (figuratively; in a more literal sense, my sympathetic nervous system took over and did it’s darndest to move my whole body out of reach while Mary demonstrated just how strong and adept at holding down subs getting their bottoms roasted). I like to think I took it it well. I mean, yeah, I was sobbing and, yes, there was moaning and, kinda, there was wailing. So when I say I took it well, what I mean is I did all those things really, really well. Almost like I had experience taking a super hard spanking. Which of course I don’t. Um, really. Cuz I’m well behaved and way too old to be subject that kind of discipline or any discipline at all except self-discipline which I have in spades. Doubt me not. Mary sat down next to me, all calm and tender. They say to calm down before you spank, but spanking is how Mary calms down. She stroked my hair while I rolled over and buried my face against her thigh. When I was able to speak, she asked me in her I’m-not-sorry I-did-that-but-I’m-sorry-you’re-in-pain voice, “Why did you that?” I’m a very self-aware person. No, really. True story. I knew exactly why I did that because I had five whole weeks between doing it and that moment to think it over. “Cuz I’m not a little girl and don’t need permission to do stuff so long as I accept the consequences and I did.” Before you say anything, and like you even get a say (which you don’t!), I’m aware how that sounds. But you’re wrong! It’s not something a little girl would say. It’s what a middle would say. And I’m not one of those either and I should know because, and I already said this but no one seems to listen to me, I’m very self-aware. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘She’s very much herself.’ Whatever that even means, but it’s so obviously a compliment we don’t need to interrogate it much or at all really. Really. Mary sighed one of her I’m-sorry-you-get-so-deep-into-your-own-head-that-you-do-such-silly-things. “You know spending that much money, and doing something that big to our home, without asking me isn’t just breaking the rules. It’s also and more importantly not what partners do. Not even if it’s their way of saying something they don’t know how to say.” “I know. I’m so sorry. I won’t ever do anything like that again.” “I hope not. This time you got a spanking; if there’s a next time, we’re just gonna have a fight.” Hoo boy. You think I cry hard when I get battered by the bath brush, but only because I’ve never chronicled a real fight between me and Mary in my diary (which you shouldn’t even be reading, pervert). “Let’s get you re-dressed,” Mary said. She got up and I rolled over onto my back again and winced but, uh, not because it hurt. Why didn’t I stand up instead? Because Mary went to the closet, where the things live. “Your consequence isn’t over. You’re wearing your diapers for the next five days. If you need to go number two, you need to come find me. I’ll take you to the bathroom.” She unfolded the diaper, a big thick one she got a sample of and I think was waiting for the right time to put me in it. She lifted my ankles again. “You’ve got quite the bruised bottom, little girl.” She got the diaper under me. “I’m going to check the bottom after you use the potty, and if you don’t do a perfect job wiping, you’re going to lose the privilege of doing that yourself. Understand?” Aw geez!! “Yes. I’m sorry.” “I know, sweetie, and I accept your apology. You’re also not allowed to be alone the entire time you’re back in diapers.” “You’re grounding me?” That’s a new one. Huh. “If that’s what you want to call it. If you want to go somewhere, you have to ask permission.” “Is that because I did this to make the point I don’t have to ask permission?” “Yep. And you can only go somewhere with me, Nana, or a friend. Not alone and nother another little, either. It has to be Nana or someone who has permission to discipline you. Same if I need to go somewhere. You can come with, go to Nana’s, or go to a friend’s house, or a friend needs to come over to babysit. There, how’s that diaper feel?” “Like you spanked me really hard.” “You needed a really hard spanking.” Instead of picking my shorts up off the floor, Mary went to my dresser and fished through one of my drawers until she came up with the shorts I bought for the ten minutes I thought beach yoga might be my new thing. “You have one more consequence today. You’re going to put these on, you’re going to go write a check for the other half of the sprinkler system, and you’re going to go give it to them.” O! My! Gawd! She’s evil! She’s evil and and … and … stuff! The shorts won’t hide this diaper! The diaper is bigger than the shorts and it’s not even close and they’re gonna know! And I’ve been crying! They probably heard me crying! They might have heard my spanking! I’ve been crying and getting spanked and I’m gonna waddle out there and they’re gonna know I’m wearing a diaper under these … these … They’re not even shorts! They’re practically swim bottoms! How can Mary be so evil! It’s not even ethical! “But Mary!” Do you know how opposed I have to be o whatever Mary is making me do to actually say so after the kind of spanking she gave me? Heccin opposed! “Daphne Ann, no.” “Can you give it to them?” “You know that’s not the point. Besides, this is your chance to prove you’re a big girl. Little girls don’t write checks, right?” “Buh … Fine.” “And when you come back inside …” “If I don’t have a humiliation aneurism.” “… I’ll wash your face, and then you can do whatever you want to do today, but you’re still grounded.” I didn’t, just so my future biographers (especially the unauthorized ones) know, let out the longest, whiniest whine in the history of whining. Didn’t happen. All that happened was I asked Mary, “Um, after you wash my face, can I come hang out in your office?” She smiled. “You’re always my little shadow after a big spanking. You can come in, but you have to do something quiet.” “Okay.” “Should I buy you an activity table so you can hang out in my office and color and stuff?” “… Yes, but not cuz I’m a little girl. It’s just cuz I like hanging out with you.” “Even when we’re not even talking or doing the same thing?” “Of course.” What a weird question. “Me too.” Sigh. She loves me. Now to work up the courage to go face those guys. Crap.

That is such a Daffy way of responding 😆

Are you suggesting a woman in her 30s can handle her sugar and that Daffy might not have the reaction she does if Mary didn’t make a rule against it? I mean, maybe a woman in her 40s can handle her sugar, maybe … 😂😂

Scene #208 Can I just say in my defense that it’s been a long time since I went on a peanut butter bender and that if you’re not sposed to go all berserk and stuff they should make peanut butter Easter eggs less delicious? That’s my defense, and it’s strong like yours truly. Truly? Yes, really. I explained that to Nana. I said, “Good afternoon, Nana. Can I hang out at your house for a little while? Mary thinks I’m hyper and I don’t think I’m hyper; I just think I had too much sugar which isn’t the same as being hyper though I guess that’s where the word hyperglycemic comes from and anyway, Mary said I should see if you’re doing anything cuz if I stay at home I’m gonna get a spanking, so I said she already spanked me today and she said no, like a serious one and not like the one I got this morning and I didn’t even do anything except eat a bunch of peanut butter Easter eggs which I’m not allowed to do but I don’t think that’s a rule that makes as much sense as Mary thinks it does and …” Somewhere during my not at all hyper soliloquy, Nana just stepped aside and in I strode to her living room. In fact, my recollection of events is that I was calm. Like, so calm. So calm that Nana invited me to “sleep it off,” the ‘it’ in question being my calmness and not, ya know, a sugar crash. But if any fault attaches to anyone - which it doesn’t cuz nothing was weird about anything - it’s Mary for letting me make peanut butter pancakes for breakfast and put syrup on them and her failure to, ya know, sniff out the illicit peanut butter eggs I brought home after being reminded about what’s happened on past Easters (and halloweens, valentines, and christmases) and specifically told not to buy any this year. She’s going soft on me. All talk; no action. Except for when she takes action, like she did that very morning. Not that it hurt (very much) but she left a handprint on my thigh. Little something she calls an ‘attention getter’ for when I’m (she’s so melodramatic) ‘out of my mind’ on sugar and not listening to her. “Welcome back,” Nana said to me as I yawned and stretched on her sofa. She was - how very much like a nana my Nana is - sitting on the sofa watching The Price Is Right and knitting. “Was I asleep very long?” “A half-hour.” “Sorry.” “Don’t be sorry. Sometimes I take a nap after breakfast too. Can you stay a while?” “I think I’m supposed to.” I nodded toward the backpack I had set down next to the door. “Mary handed me that when she was swatting me out the door. I think that means I’m supposed to stay out of the house for a few hours.” “That’s a little harsh.” “I may - okay, ‘may’ - have been making it impossible for her to get any work done. I don’t know what came over me.” So if you drown your worries in alcohol, do you suffocate them in peanut butter? Squash them under a pile of candy? Not that I have worries; leading an exemplary existence over here. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘Stellar example of existence.’ Really. More like I have stress. We all have stress. I think having stress is supposed to be a marker of status now or something: stress - the new conspicuous consumption. How fitting that I addressed it by consuming chocolate; must be why they call it ‘stress eating’ or something. “I should …” I started to say. “Change,” she asked, cutting me off. “No.” “What were you gonna say?” “Text Mary and apologize. Why? And I didn’t bring any clothes.” “Your clothes are fine.” “Change wh… O. O!” I forgot, okay? I forgot I was wearing a diaper cuz, um, it was a helluva bender. Yeah, that’s it. And cuz wearing diapers has become distressingly normal. Wow. I’m stressed and distressed at the same time. You’d think that couldn’t be possible but if something can be flammable and inflammable at the same time, then … What a crazy world we’re living in. I’m not rambling again. Again? I never rambled the first time. Or ever. Really … Teehee. Plus I was, “Dry. I’m dry. She’s making me … She’s been in a … Anyhoo …” “Daffy,” Nana said like I’m so delicate her words might destroy me, “are you sure?” Ach! I was until she asked me that! Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic just focus on what you’re feeling … except diapers don’t feel wet until they’re totally soaked so … “Um, yes?” “Do you need to check,” she asked me in a halting, confused tone because Nana - and like I needed the reminder by-contrast - is normal and doesn’t know that diapers don’t feel wet until they’re really, really wet. “I’m not … I’d remember. Unless I …” O gawd did I wet in my sleep!?! O fuck o no o fuck o no o fuck fuck fuck fuck ahhhhhhh!!!!!! I was totally calm on the outside. Yep, just a woman sliding her hand up the leg of her shorts in full view of the other woman whose house she was in. “I’m … dry.” Praise and glory and stuff!!! “Why did you think I … (sniff … sniff sniff). O.” Either I’m getting blind to the scent of Mary-made-Daphne-sleep-in-a-diaper-and-Daphne-hasn’t-showered-yet or Nana has a nose like a grandma, which she is so I guess her nose technically is a grandma’s … Anyway, I’m not the kind of person who suffers from embarrassment or humiliation or mortification so I just, ya know, didn’t at all wanna crawl between the sofa cushions and die. Not even a little. I wanted to go outside and dig a hole and jump in and pull the earth in after me, but for totally unrelated reasons. Really. “I, um,” I confidently stuttered, “didn’t have a chance to shower and …” “Wanna take a shower?” “Yes please.” So I did. Felt great. Felt really, really great to be taking a shower at the neighbors cuz I slept in a wet diaper and smelled like wee and got spanked out of the house before I had a chance to shower cuz I was annoying my wife cuz I ate too much sugar. Yep. Felt great. Yep yep yeppers … I mean, at least I didn’t cry in the shower? Cuz that would just be pathetic. Got that silver lining, and got another one: Nana is the sweetest, most understanding vanilla in the world so while I turned all the shades of red I can turn, I at least knew she wasn’t judging me. “Come to the guest room,” I heard her say when I shut off the water, “I got your things.” I wrapped myself in a towel and walked down the hall to the sound of a seventy-year-old woman going, “Squee!” I didn’t think women of that generation could squee; scream at the boy singers on American Bandstand until they pass out, sure, but squee? Who knew? Not me; that’s who didn’t know. “This is perfect,” she was saying as I rounded the corner to discover her discovering the contents of my backpack. Good thing I was done being embarrassed; yep. I was just red from toe to hairline (and my hair also but that’s red all the time) cuz the shower was hot. Yep. Really. “That’s … Mary’s. Her idea. She’s so … dweeby.” Not that Nana noticed cuz she was too busy examining the bunny diaper. “It’s so Easter. How was your shower?” “Um, wet … Are there any underpants in there?l “No, sorry.” “Um - I can’t believe I’m saying this - a pull-up?” “Just diapers.” “Ugh. Well, I guess I can just pull the old one back on.” Nana grimaced. “Ew. You just washed all that yuckiness off you. I threw that away already.” “I would’ve … Thanks.” “So diaper,” she asked, “or commando?” I wanted to walk across the room to the wall so I could bang my head on it a time or three, but I didn’t cuz I’m an adult fully capable of handling life maturely and constructively. “Mary doesn’t let me go commando anymore. I mean, sometimes, but as a general rule, no.” “Does she let you put these on yourself?” [INSERT AWKWARD PAUSE HERE] “No worries,” Nana said. “Not our first time.” No, but been a while since Nana put one of Mary’s diapers on me. Or saw me naked. In fact, the last time those things happened was at the same time. That wouldn’t have happened, just like it wouldn’t be happening again, if I weren’t such a good rule follower. One of the best. And no, weren’t not counting Mary’s general anti-sugar rules or her specific anti-novelty-shaped-peanut-butter-treats rule. I only broke that rule because I have an addiction … And because I wanted to. And we’re not going to read anything into my selective rule following or while rules I choose to follow or why or when because, um, … Because, actually … and stuff … I always follow every rule to the letter. As well as the spirit. Let’s move on. To Nana spreading a bunny diaper on the bed. Crap. “I’m just gonna put my shirt on,” I said cuz I felt the need to narrate, apparently. I turned away and wiggled my towel down so I could put my shirt on without flashing Nana, but she was busy sorting through the backpack looking for stuff. “At least she sent you over with a diaper bag, but how does she find anything in here? She should get an actual diaper bag; so much easier to stay organized.” I turned back around just in time for Nana to go, “O my,” and turned to look at me with a bemused grin on her face, a paddle in one hand and a pacifier in the other. “Um … That’s a joke. Just a … joke. A mute button, Mary calls it. I don’t actually … unless she makes me … And not in public yet … Ever, actually, but also yet … When she says my mouth is gonna get me in trouble …” “And this is for the trouble,” she said, giving the paddle a shake. “I can’t imagine spanking you with this thing. You’re so small, and how could you ever get in enough trouble to deserve such a … This thing is brutal.” Nana likes Mary and accepts our lifestyle, but she disagrees with some of the details. To Nana, the way Mary does diaper stuff is borderline negligent. And Nana has seen my severely spanked butt before and all but accused Mary of beating me (in a bad way; not in the kinky good way which is the way I experienced it which was awful at the time but o so wonderful not very long afterwards; sigh ….. Can’t exactly blame Nana for not getting it. It’s definitely one of those things you either get (cuz you’re kinky) or you don’t. The two of them have agreed to not talk about it, and I’ve made clear to Nana that I don’t really care for it when she brings it up in a way that makes it seem like she’s criticizing Mary (who I am obsequiously loyal to cuz she is perfect and I love her and stuff). “I can get into all sizes of trouble,” I haughtily replied. Awfully haughty for a woman about to be diapered by the neighbor lady cuz she’s following her wife’s rules (which I do cuz I’m devoted to her and to us and our delightful if embarrassing lifestyle which is delightful because it’s embarrassing; it’s like, a whole-ass thing, pun retroactively intended). “If you say so. You ready for your diaper?” “It’s not mine,” I said as I approached the edge of the bed. “Remember, we’re both women and you don’t need to be embarrassed. This is just a friend helping out a friend.” At least she’s quick at it? At least she didn’t make a big deal out of the handprint Mary left? At least I had the good sense not to panic and explain the handprint out of some misguided attempt to get out in front of the issue as though that would be less embarrassing? O wait; actually no, I didn’t have the good sense not to do that. Crap. “That’s just … Mary calls it an attention getter. I, um, well, in Mary’s opinion I was having trouble holding still when she was diapering me this morning and not whining about wearing a diaper out of the house, so … But I settled down eventually.” And what is that except proof that I’m great at following directions (when they’re enforced)? “Heh. I would’ve settled down too. I bet that stings.” “Not anymore.” Cuz I’m tough and brave and stuff. I mean, like I’m even scared of breaking rules or getting caught breaking rules or even need to get diapered by my pseudo-grandma so as to avoid breaking the rules. Right? Of course I’m right. Really. “All done,” Nana announced. She picked up my shorts and held them out for me as I stepped back into them. “Amazing how you almost can’t tell you’re wearing such a thick diaper under those.” And then she swatted my butt. Great; just great. All I needed in my life was another person patting my butt when it’s in a diaper. What is it with people and the atavistic need pay butts in diapers? “‘Almost’ can’t tell,” I asked. “Well, I can tell but only because I know. Your hair is getting awfully long.” She changed the subject! Thank gawd! I should try changing the subject more often. “Mary likes it long.” Of course, I have this knack for changing the subject back to Mary (almost like I’m obsessed with her or something). “I told her I’d grow it out for her but that she’s in charge of it. Do you think it’s long enough to braid yet?” “Just about. Want me to braid it for you?” “No, I want Mary to do it.” Which is, but the way, not at all like when a little kid says they want their mom to do something. I just, ya know, wanna sit between Mary’s legs while she braids my hair and if she should - and this is a thing that may happen and. It something I’m specifically wanting to happen and will be upset if it doesn’t happen - call me a good girl and whisper sweet things in my ear and tickle my sides and also call me a good girl whiles she’s braiding, that would be really wholesome and stuff and okay with me. Alls I’m sayin’. “Do you need help with anything while I’m over here,” I asked cuz I wanna be helpful and not just a taker. I’m very aware of how much Nana gives of herself and I get anxious that I don’t give back. Plus I’m very fit and stuff and can help with lots of things that Nana might find difficult despite her being so spry. “I need to cook for tomorrow, and I need to hide Easter eggs.” “We can hide Easter eggs while it’s in the oven,” I helpfully suggested cuz I’m helpful. I prepped fruit salad while Nana prepped a ham. I have childhood trauma with ham, but I’m pretty fruity myself so it all balances out and stuff. “So how is Mary,” Nana asked. “I haven’t seen her for a bit.” “She’s been busy at work the last couple weeks. She’s okay. Kinda …” “What?” “She’s been kinda all over the place, I think. Sorta.” “How so?” “Some days she’s kind grumpy and a little overly strict and other days she’s been really indulgent and doting.“ “Sounds kind of stressful. Is she okay?” “She’s fine. It’s my fault, I think. I think I threw her for a loop a couple weeks ago. I got jealous of the way she was being with a friend and we had a little fight and I called her a name that kinda, well, maybe changed some things.” “Did you take it back?” “Not that kind of name calling. Actually, kinda the good kind of name calling, but I wouldn’t say it for a long time and then I did cuz I was upset and now we don’t know what it means.” “Can I ask what the name is?” Good ol’ Nana sensing that if I wanted to say it, I would’ve. She’s gotten really good at seeming to know what I’m talking about even when it’s not at all clear to a vanilla what I’m talking about. I could’ve told her, but she wouldn’t have understood. Plus I didn’t want say the truth. I mean, the whole ageplay thing weirds out a lot of kinky people too, and I don’t think my neighbor needs to know I called my wife ‘mommy.’ “Um,” I said, searching for a way to say it without saying it, “this isn’t what it is, but it’s kinda like a title. Like how some people might refer to their partner as ‘mistress.’ So it’s like that, if that makes any sense.” “So what does that change for you guys?” “That’s the thing - we don’t know.” “Maybe it doesn’t change anything.” “I think we both kinda think that, but maybe we’re both just nervous that we don’t know yet. That and … I dunno. I’m the one who was weird about it for so long. I’m still kinda meh on it. I still don’t know why. She’s being weird because I’m being weird … Actually, that’s not really fair to me. She’s being weird because she doesn’t know what it means, and I’m being weird because I don’t know what it means … And also cuz I’m weird.” In fairness to me - and we should always be fair to me; I mean, we should be fair to everybody, but more so to me and if we ever have to choose, we should be fair to me first and everybody else second because reasons - Mary is weird too. We’re weird separately and as a unit. “You want an old lady’s opinion?” “You’re not old, but yeah, I’d like your opinion.” “You’re just getting used to it and it won’t be weird at all in a little while. Probably pretty soon if it’s already been a couple weeks.” “So we should stop being stressed about it?” “Yep.” Good ol’ Nana. Cutting right through our BS. “Did you ever text her? She’s probably wondering where you are,” Nana said. “You should text her so she doesn’t think you got stolen.” “Yeah.” “And tell her she can’t rush you out the door without a shower if she have you sleep in a peepee diaper. Three years with you back in diapers and she’s still learning how to take care of a girl in diapers.” O. My. Gawd. Kill me. Kill me now.

Cutie!!!

New pic of Mary and Daphne just dropped 😂🤣😂🤣🤣🤣🤣

Scene #207 Getting my butt beat by Mary reminded me of something: I fucking love spanking! So much so that I’ve been giving Mary excuses (kinda insisting actually) to smack my butt on the regular. It’s hard to come up with fresh ways of misbehaving, but I’m nothing if not creative. Of course, I’m creative and all the other things too. And I thought I had a really good one. “Mary,” I said to Mary to start off my confession, “I have something to confess.” “You’re late.” “How am I late?” “I turned off my computer five minutes ago. This is the longest you’ve waited for me to be done with work before you’ve come looking for a spanking for, like, the last two weeks.” I’ve been ever so naughty but very forthcoming about it. True story. “Then I have two things to confess. First, I’m late.” “What’s the other one.” Hoo; deep breath; not sure how this is going to go over. I reached into my pocket and took out (drum roll please) … … … a blindfold. I handed it to Mary. She looked at it. She looked at me. “See the tag? Where it says to only wash it by hand. I machine-washed it.” Mary made her patented you’re-trying-so-hard-and-it’s-adorable face. I love that face cuz it tells me she recognizes how hard I’m trying and that she thinks I’m adorable. Which is really just the best. Sigh … “C’mon,” she said and took my hand. And all I could think as she led me to our bedroom is I can’t believe I get to hold hands with her for the rest of my life. She’s so awesome! Not that I’m all fan girl for Mary and stuff, but I so am. “Sit down on the bed, baby girl. We need to have a talk.” She doesn’t call me baby girl very often. I dutifully sat down, knowing heccin darn well what kind of talks we have in situations like this. My butt was all a-tingle in anticipation, and … other parts … were ancitipatey too. She knelt down in front of me and took both my hands in hers. “This misbehavior has got to stop, Daphne Ann,” she said all softly and stuff like she was so very disappointed in me. That tone can make me cry all the tears when I’m actually in trouble, but when I’m not it sends this electric spark down my spine and makes me wanna (can’t think of the word … ope! got it) jump Mary’s bones. Yep. Wanna jump her bones. I saucily replied (cuz I’m saucy and stuff), “Make me.” “Tsk tsk tsk. How many times have I spanked your bottom this month?” I was about to say but Mary was asking one of her rhetorical questions, apparently. “Too many, which tells me something.” “What does it tell you,” I asked in my coquette voice. I was hoping that would convey to her that she needed to spank my front after spanking my back. Haven’t done that in a while, and I think it’s really starting to show in my deportment. True story. “Sometimes little girls act out …” “I’m not a little girl.” But like she even paused in whatever she was saying. “… because they’re not getting enough discipline, and sometimes they act out because they’re not getting enough love.” “Got it – loving discipline. Let’s go!” “So we’re gonna try something a little different today.” Not that I was impatient or anything, but I looked at my wrist. A watch used to be there, like ten years ago. Tick tock, Mary. My butt’s gone un-spanked for twenty-four hours. “What are we gonna try differently, and how long will it take?” Not that I wanted to get through it fast so there’d still be time left to try the same thing over (and over), but … “To start …” Ruh-roh; she has pounce face. And then she pounced on me. “Marrryyyy, what’re you doing,” I pleaded from flat on my back. This tall lesbian was totally straddling me and … “I’m trying to get to your tummy!” “Mar no ugh sto heeheehee!” “Pbbbbbbbtttt!” “Heeeheeee eeeeeeppp!” “Who’s my good girl?” “Me! Sto eeeeeeeeeee!” “Whose tummy am I tickling?” “Mi eeeeeeee!” “No squealing.” “I can’t help eeeeeeeeeeee!” “I’ma wear you out. Pbbbbbbbtttt!” “Hi heeee heee heeeheeheeeee! Marryyyyyy!” And then she stopped, and I opened my eyes, and she was on her knees, still straddling me and with a hand planted firmly on either of my (ticklish) sides. Her hair was messy and she was a little out of breath and she looked very pretty. Sigh … Not that I could let on that I like her and stuff. Just cuz we’re married doesn’t mean a proper girl like me can stop playing hard to get. “O, Mary. When did you get here?” And then – get this! – she kissed me. Me! Her wife! On the lips and everything. Literally, everything, working her way down to my belly. I think she likes bellies or something; so weird. “I think (kiss kiss kiss),” she said as she started unbuckling my pants, “you shouldn’t (kiss) wear pants with buttons anymore (kiss kiss). They take way too long to pull down.” She says that, but she can open the button on any pair of pants I own with the flick of a finger. She’s got lots of practice and stuff from doing all these things to me she likes to do so much. Heehee! “What pretty undies you’re wearing today. Who’s this?” “Um, me?” “No, silly, on your underpants. Who’s this character?” “O, a Disney princess, I think.” “You don’t know?” “You’re the one who bought them. By the way, where are you hiding my regular panties? Asking for my friend.” “It’s cute your friend thinks these aren’t your regular undies, and it’s kinda funny your friend thinks your old undies are even in the house anymore.” “Wait, seriously?” I liked those panties! They were sexy; even the ones that were just functional were sexy compared to the ones Mary didn’t apparently, throw out.. “Focus, little girl. What’s the name of this princess?” “I dunno. Moana?” “You always guess Moana.” “Cuz that’s the last Disney movie I saw.” O crap; Mary’s her the-wheels-are-turning-in-my-head face. “You just got a new homework assignment. You have two weeks to watch every major Disney movie that’s come out since 2010 and memorize all the major characters.” I just threw up in my mouth a little. “Blegh; can’t you just beat me or something?” “It’s not a punishment, sweetie.” “Feels like it.” “Do you want a punishment?” “Um, yeah. That’s literally what I came to find you for.” “Okay.” Ruh-roh; Mary’s I’m-so-delighted-with-the-mean-thing-I’m-gonna-do-to-Daffy face. “At the end of those two weeks, you are gonna serenade me with two Disney songs … And I will be recording them. How good a job you do will determine how many friends I share them with.” “Ourgghhh … So if I do a good job they get shared with fewer people or more people?” “I don’t know yet.” “Ourgghhhhh!” “What I do know,” the fiend I married said, “is you’re way too little to wear undies tonight.” “I’m not little!” “Yes.” “No!” “Mhmm.” “Hmmph!” “Who’s a pouty princess? Who’s my pouty pout princess?” “I don’t know! Moana?” “No, you silly little girl, you. You’re my pouty princess!” “Marrryyyy! Stop teasing me!” “Pbbbbbbbttttt!” “Heeeheeeee no! Mean!” “(Kiss kiss kiss) So mean. Wanna pick out your diaper, or do you want me to do it?” “Let’s go lingerie shopping.” I suggested that because reasons. I mean, even if we didn’t buy anything for me, I could watch Mary try stuff on. There’s this one store with this salesgirl with pink hair who totally clocked our gayness and was totally flirting when she offered to do a fitting, and I think we should take her up on that for science and stuff. “Let’s see how you feel about going lingerie shopping after we get your princess parts padded.” She slunk off the bed (and me) cuz she’s slinky and stuff. She moves like a fox; it’s part of what makes her so foxxy, I think. “I got you new diapers,” she said. All excited and just ugh. “You mean you got you new diapers. I don’t own any diapers.” “When a momma buys diapers for the baby, are they momma’s diapers or the baby’s?” “Buh! Nuh! Hurnoopler! M-marrryyy!” “It’s okay. I know you’re not a baby. You just wear diapers like one.” She disappeared into the closet, leaving me stunned by her effrontery and stuff. “I only wear them cuz you make me!” “And when a momma diapers her baby girl, does the baby girl do it cuz they want to or cuz they can’t stop momma?” “Forniwobbly!” “Aww, you’re getting all flustered. You’ll feel better when you got your pampers on.” She had everything she needed, including an unwilling wife. She took the cuffs of my pants in her hands, and I raised my hips to let her pull them off (cuz I have agency, dammit!), and she pushed me back down. “I don’t need any help from you. You just lay there and look pretty.” I wasn’t blushing, for the record. I was just red. Sometimes that’s just what color I am, and Mary should get no credit for it ever. It only encourages her. “You say you’re not a little girl, but you’re so tiny I can lift your legs by the ankles to take your pants off.” “Ourgh,” I didn’t whine. Didn’t turn redder either. Those are lies, in case you hear differently. “I’m just petite,” I said from behind my arms. Just needed a moment alone (not because I was embarrassed; I had way too much righteous indignation at her treatment of me to be embarrassed) and what better place to be alone than hiding behind your arms. Not that I was hiding (another lie, if some liar tells you I was). Nothing happened for a moment. I peeked out from behind my arms and Mary was making her I-like-Daffy’s-bare-legs face. I saw my chance. “We could skip the diaper and have sex instead,” I helpfully suggested. I’m very helpful. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘such a good helper.’ I have pre-school report cards singing my praises for always being eager to help and follow rules and to share. “O no ya don’t, piddle pants. We need to get you in a diaper.” Drat. “Can I go pee first?” “That’s what your diapies are for, sweetums!” “Stop baby talking!” “Make me.” “O my gawd! Marryyyy! Hhh!” “Why are you gasping?” “Cuz you’re – hhh! – touching my …” “Your undies? Your undies and what’s under them? Goodness o gracious, Miss Daffy, you are just radiating heat down here.” “Don’t … read anything into it.” “All I’m reading into it is I need to get you diapered before you leak anything anywhere.” She whisked my panties down my legs. I heard crinkling, and she raised my ankles, slipping the diaper under me. “I remember the very first time I put you in a diaper. I needed three tries to get it in the right spot. Now if only takes one. How about that.” “Groan.” “You can just groan, Daffodil. You don’t have to say ‘groan.’” “Grrr.” “You’re so pretty lying on top your diaper. Who’s a pretty girl?” “Grrr.” “Who’s a pretty girl? Do I hafta tickle it outta you?” “I’m a pretty girl, and it has nothing to do with the diaper. Nothing!” NOTHING! “You’re a pretty girl in anything and nothing, but you’re just o so cute in your pampers. Yes you are! A-yes you are!” She sprinkled powder on me; I like how that feels despite not liking how it feels. She smoothed it in. I really like how that feels. “You’re smooth as a baby down here, and now you smell like one too. So sweet and fresh. Well, considering.” “Considering what? What’s that supposed to mean?!?” “Considering how … eager you seem down here.” “Am not!” “Wanna bet?” “A million dollars!” “How about if I can make you cum in the next five minutes, you do the same for me?” “ … Yes, but only cuz I have a gambling problem. And only if you promise not to draw any conclusions from anything if you win.” Just a gambling addiction that I just discovered that I have right this moment and not at all cuz I viewed her proposal as a win-win, and certainly not cuz I was aroused. Really. And even if I was aroused, it was only cuz she was touching me down there. And cuz I have a humiliation fetish. Nothing at all to do with the way she was talking down to me; it’s, uh, not that kind of humiliation fetish. Um, really. Yep; don’t like diapers; just like being made fun of. And cumming. Being made fun of and cumming. True story. “I win,” she said. “What!?! I didn’t.” “Daffy, look at me.” She moved my arms away from my face, revealing to me her perfectly confident expression. Confidence is … sexy. I know for her it’s the opposite; she sees insecurity and wants to make it all better, but as a sub, I see her confidence and want to attach myself to her like a koala to a tree “I’ve already won,” she said. She took my wrists in her hands and pinned them to the bed above my head, getting back on top of me. Only her hands and knees were touching me as she hovered above me. “All I need to make you cum are my words.” That’s … a true thing. Not often, but sometimes she finds just the right button to push and smashes it. I find something hot as fuck about that, the way she can make me cum in my pants with just the right words sometimes (and how embarrassing it is to cum in my pants or just cuz she’s verbally teasing me; stupid but fun humiliation fetish). It’s also really hot just how proud of herself Mary is when she manages to do that. Making Mary feel positive feelings might be my number-one fetish. “You know why you have a diaper under you,” Mary said to me, “Because I put it there. You’ll lay there on your diaper and let me powder your kitty and try to hide behind your arms all embarrassed because not so very down deep you know that I know what’s best for you. You know that if I say you need to wear a diaper for the evening, you need to wear a diaper. If you need to wet your pampers, you’ll piddle a puddle in your widdle pants cuz I say so. And you’ll toddle around in your huggies being adorable and cute cuz you can’t help being so adorable and cute even if you don’t wanna be. And if I wanna tickle your tum-tum, you’ll writhe in my arms and protest ‘no no no’ but do nothing to stop me. “And you’ll tell yourself you only do it cuz you’ll get in trouble if you don’t. But you’re not afraid of a spanking. You like it when I spank your little pink bottom. You just don’t want to disappoint me. And yeah, that’s cuz you’re a subby kinky mess, but do you know the real reason?” She leaned down to whisper in my ear, “It’s cuz you don’t wanna disappoint your momma.” What. The. Fuddruckers. And what the heccin hell is my body doing? I said to my body, I said, s’top liking this right now.’ But my body doesn’t listen to me, like, ever. “O, did I say the magic word? You’re getting so blushy. You’re starting to squirm. Little girl laying on her diaper trying so hard not cum. But you will. You’ll make a cummy mess, and I’m gonna wrap you up in that diaper, and you won’t be able to stop yourself from feeling like the bestest girl in the world cuz you did just what momma wanted. You’ll be all conflicted, and that’s okay cuz I’ll be right here. Holding my little girl while she works out her little girl feelings and nurses from momma until momma cums too.” I’ve never wanted to win so bad in my life. Don’t cum don’t cum don’t cum don’t cum. Body, stopppppp! “C’mon. Make a cummy mess for momma. Be momma’s good girl.” O gawd no fair all I ever wanted was to be Mary’s good girl don’t cum don’t cum don’t … dammit! “H … hh … uhffffff!” “There you go! There’s my good girl! Big finish for momma!” “(Squeaky orgasm noises).” Dammit. “Open your eyes,” she said to me. I did, and she looked so … proud. “Such a good girl.” Sigh … Not to brag or nothing but my wife thinks I’m a good girl and she should be absolutely trusted cuz she can make me cum with just her words sometimes and they don’t give that superpower to just anyone. She quickly finished putting the diaper on me and laid down next to me, pulling me close. “How are you doing?” “(Squeaky conflicted noises).” Yep, so she had that part exactly right. “Are you mad at me?” “Mmm-mmm.” “(Kiss). Ever since you called me your mommy, I’ve been trying to bring it up. You don’t have to ever call me that again if you don’t want, but sometimes, if you do want to …” “(Squeaky whimpering noises).” “(Kiss). You’re just a crybaby (kiss). You go right ahead and get those feelings out (kiss).” A deal is a deal. I started to lift her shirt. She stopped me and asked, “Do you really want to?” I nodded, and she helped me expose her breasts. She offered me one of her nipples, and I closed my lips around it, embracing her tight and teasing her with my tongue. I started to slide my hand down to her pants, and she stopped me, putting my hand back on on her side and writhing at the sensations I was giving her with my mouth. “You’re so good at that,” she said softly. “What a talented little hhh! Hhh! …. Mmmmm. Haha! I’m not sure which of us was more primed.” Mary was. Definitely Mary. I’ve been to known have a hair trigger on my … But when Mary is wound up, she can set speed records if she’s got the right … car. Some metaphors get away from me. Sorry. “I’m not a little girl,” I reminded her. “But you can still be my mommy … And I’ll call you that sometimes.” “To make me happy or to make you happy?” “(Sound of me not answering).” “Okay. Can I call myself that sometimes?” “Yeah; you can.” I felt her muscles tense and relax in mild excitement and happiness at getting to use a term that meant so many things to both of us. She’d wanted to use it for so long. I don’t want her to use it all the time (in no small part cuz I don’t wanna live with someone who refers to herself in the third person), but I guess I’m okay with her using it sometimes. “Thank you, Daphne. I promise I’ll be careful with it.” “I know you will.” “But,” she said mock-seriously, “I don’t care what you say. You are my little girl … And don’t think I don’t feel your warm diaper against my thigh.” “I told you I had to pee.” “Heh. Yeah, you did. I’ll change you at bedtime. Do you like the new diaper?” “It fits really well … Like, really well.” Which is a thing I regret knowing. O, to rewind the clock to when I had no reference point for how a diaper fits. “I don’t like it.” “I know.” She patted my butt. “Momma knows.” “Marrryyy!” “Too much too soon?” “Yeah. Big meanie.” “The way you’re holding me so tight makes me think I need to be mean to you more often.” “You promised not to draw any conclusions.” “Oops; I did. I won’t draw any more … Puddle Pants.” “Marrryyy! Be nice to me. I’m emotionally vulnerable over here.” “Look at me.” I did, and she saw in my eyes that I wasn’t kidding. “Okay. I’ll be super nice to you. How about a nap before dinner? We can order in from somewhere. And I’ll let you be the big spoon.” “I don’t wanna be the big spoon today.” “(Kiss). My sleepy good girl.” “(Sleepy gay sighs).”

Are you suggesting Daphne is a silly goose? Cuz you know how she feels about that. ?

Scene #206 I’m just a mess lately. I admit this. A messy mess. An overheated hot mess. I mean, I’m fine like I always am cuz I keep myself busy being a paragon and stuff, but also like, holy shit. And for what reason am I this fine? I don’t even know, but I’m fine in a way that’s not and sure would like to get to the bottom of it. So what did I do? Well, if you’ll shush and stop interrupting me with your questions I shall tell you what I did. “Mary,” I said to Mary, “punish me.” “What? Why?” “Cuz you haven’t in a while.” “Cuz you’ve been a good girl.” How much of a mess am I? My wife - Mary! The one and only! - called me a good girl and I didn’t experience any internal squeeing. Wtf?!? “I have not. I’ve been terrible,” I argued. “In what possible way,” she said incredulously. She was totally misreading my signals. “In all the ways and things. Just punish me.” “Do you want a good girl spanking?” “I want a bad girl spanking.” “But you haven’t been bad.” “I know! I’ve been so good! It’s like I’m losing my edge. I used to be such a handful. I used to keep you on your toes. I used to push the envelope! I’m going soft! Punish me for going soft!” “Daffy, I can’t punish you for no reason.” “Yes, you can. You’ve done it before.” “When have I ever punished you for no reason?” O. My. Gawd. Lemme count the times: one … One time. “Just punish me. C’mon,” I didn’t whine. “Daffy, c’mere.” “So you can punish me?” Score! “So I can hug you.” “Punish. Me.” “I don’t punish for no reason.” “Do you want me to give you a reason?” Cuz I’ll do it! I’ll heccin give her a reason! “What? No. You can have a good girl spanking, or you can have a hug.” “Bad girl spanking and snuggles.” Which is when she folded her arms and gave me no answer. I was in no mood for these shenanigans. I was in zero mood to wait until I misbehaved on accident. And I was standing next to the console table … upon which was a vase. In the past, I may have deservedly earned a reputation for always making good choices. Perfect choices, even. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were her’ and it’s like, of course they wouldn’t cuz they’re not me and thusly do not have my perfect choice making ability. I mean, not that I wanna criticize but I don’t even know why Mary reminds me so much to make good choices. I looked at the vase. Mary looked at me looking at the vase. I nudged the vase toward the edge of the table. “No,” Mary said. “Too far.” Which I interpreted as exactly the right amount of far. I nudged the vase a little more. “Daphne Ann, you do not wanna …” In the moment the vase was in mid-air, time slowed down just long for me to step out of myself. I had a good third-person view of the situation and thought, firstly, about all the insta videos of cats doing exactly what I’d just done and thenly, For someone who makes perfect choices this might have been a bad idea. And the vase? It fell to the carpet and went klunk into a thousand shards that somehow maintained the exact shape and structural integrity of a vase. Dammit. Mary’s not-impressed face. “You hafta punish me now. I … broke the vase.” “You didn’t even chip the vase.” “I … dented the carpet.” “That’s not even a thing.” “How are you even tolerating my attitude right now?!? Adjust it!” “Good girl spanking or hug. Those are your choices.” “God fucking dammit!” “Excuse me?” Mary’s no-you-just-didn’t face. Been a while but I’d recognize it anywhere. “Whuh huh?” “What words did you just use at me?” “Um … They weren’t. I … Crap.” At the time - when the spanks were landing to the tune of you-do-not-swear-at-me - I distinctly recall thinking I had bit off more than I intended to chew. Now, as the swelling goes down, I have this odd sense that I’d been baited into breaking such a big rule. She’s so sweet to me. “You are gonna get it,” Mary said as she spank-marched me up the stairs. “Using curse words at me. That is totally unacceptable.” “Got you - ow! - to listen - eep! - though. (SMACK!) OUCH!” “Not the time to be getting smart mouthed with me.” I’d estimate that it’s fifty steps from where we were to our bedroom, and I got at least two spanks for every step. Mary played softball, and lemme tell you the lady knows how to put some force into her underhand. Spank after underhand thunder-spank, practically lifting me up the stairs and propelled me down the hall. She’s gonna put me over her knee on the bed, I thought, but she spanked me right past it. Nope? She’s gonna do it in the wing chair. No? On the ottoman? No. Huh. “Little girls do not speak that way,” Mary said as she marched me into our bathroom and parked me at the sink pressed against the counter. She reached around me and started the tap. Little girls - which I am not! - may not speak that way, but they think it. And not that I’m a little girl, but I was thinking, O fuck o no o fuck o no not the soap not the soap shiiiiiiiiittttttt! “Mary (spank) no soap (spank) I don’t want (spank) soap (spank spank). I just want (spank) a spanking.” “You don’t get to decide what consequence you get when you make bad choices. You’re getting your mouth washed out, and then you’re getting a spanking.” “But (sob) I don’t (other sob) want (sound of pants and panties being whisked to my ankles) …” “Of course you don’t. Soap tastes yucky. Almost as yucky as the words you said to me.” She lathered the soap, and I just, well, I didn’t just stand there. I mean, how pathetic would that be? I stood there and got weepy and kinda begged. The exact opposite of pathetic because reasons which are mine. Really. “Open.” “Mmm-mmm” SPANK!!! “Open … If I have to pinch your nose …” O yeah, this is what soap tastes like. It’s even worse than I remember. A minute ago we were arguing about me getting a bad girl spanking and here I am actually getting punished. How did that even happen? “You. Do. Not. Use swear words at me. You can cuss up your little girl storm, but you know better, much better, than to swear at anyone, let alone me. Bite down … Harder.” Who even taught her to spank along with the syllables? And this is gonna be in my molars for a day at least. Please don’t throw up. This is so gross it almost distracts me from how much my butt hurts. I mean, how does she even do that with her hand? My hands hurt just from … O, I’m clenching them. Boy, she is really going to town back there. Just kidding. My thought process wasn’t nearly that cogent. It was more like, Ow gross ouch ew ow yuck ow ow ow gag gag gag ow gross ow gross eep blech. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘Quite a deep thinker when she’s not super focused on keeping her lunch down.’ True story. “Look at yourself,” Mary said. “Undies around your ankles getting your bottom spanked and your mouth washed out. Still feel like a big girl? Does it still feel good to swear?” True story? It never felt good. It just came out. And I’ll beat Mary to the spank and admit that isn’t an excuse for what I said (I’m one of the all-time great admitters … when Mary reminds me of the things I did wrong and makes me admit it). “Open.” Which I did and made all kinds of unspellable onomatopoeias spitting and hacking while Mary filled my cup (for tooth brushing; thankfully I’m not verbally naughty enough to need one just for rinsing out soap) and held it to my lips. Cuz yep, she doesn’t even let me hold my own cup after she washes out my mouth. It’s non-negotiable, akin to not being allowed to take my own pants down. “You can brush your teeth after your spanking. C’mon.” Taken by the wrist back into the bedroom, just shuffling along behind Mary as she beelined to my nightstand to get her paddle (she says it’s mine, but she’s the one swinging it - it’s so hers even if it does live on my nightstand as a reminder to make good choices) and then beelining back to the wing chair. “You wanted a bad girl spanking,” she said to me while shaking that paddle, “you’re gonna get one and regret it.” Joke’s on her - I already regret it. Not supposed to say that though, cuz then I’d really get it. You can sass during your spank-march, and you can sass when you’re being bared, and you can even sass during your warm-up spanking. But sassing post-warm-up is only if your have a butt-death wish. Take it from me, a girl who has taken it from Mary. Mary didn’t scold or lecture. She just tipped me over her knee leaving my feet in the air and my elbows practically on the floor, and she started spanking. And paddling. And spanking with a paddle. Me? What was my part in this? Well, I shall tell you: cried. I cried. Like some emotionally addled person; an emotionally addled person getting the worst spanking she’s gotten all year … And possibly in the last twelve months. It’s really unsustainable, this whole me going without a seriously bruised butt for more than a month thing. I mean, thank goodness I swore at Mary cuz I think I really would’ve broken something. And I like our somethings. Round about the time I’d slid so far forward the only things holding me upright were Mary and my face against the carpet, the she-beast I married swooped me off her lap and pressed my face into her chest. And what did I do? Well, I shall tell you: wailed. I wailed. Muffled by Mary’s shirt, which I totally slimed. One might even say I unashamedly wiped my nose on her, but she knew the risk when she decided to hug me so tight. I recover quickly both physically and emotionally (kinda like a vampire slayer), so even through my tears I was able to say, “My butt hurrrrrrrrrts and my mouth taste yuckyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” And Mary treated me like an adult. I mean, so much like an adult that it was rated M for adult situations (and nudity cuz I wasn’t wearing any bottoms and my bottom was on display and I was straddling Mary’s lap so more than my bottom was on display and stuff). Yep, treated me exactly like an adult by shushing my tears and stroking my hair and rocking gently back and forth. When I had soothed myself - yep, soothed myself; no help from Mary cuz I didn’t need any cuz I’m totally independent in all the ways and stuff … really - Mary said to me, “Feel better?” And I sniffled and snurfled and … apologized. “Sorry.” “For what are you sorry?” “For swearing at you. And sliming your shirt.” “You didn’t swear at me. Not really. And I’m used to you sliming my shirt. Do you know why?” “Why?” “Cuz you’re a crybaby.” And I did NOT make uwu eyes at her! My lips did not tremble! And I did NOT whine “I’m not a crybaby” in a pathetically squeaky, whiny squeak. It didn’t happen, and I wish you’d just let it go already. Geez. “Ready to brush the soap out of your teeth?” “Mhmmm … Which was totally unnecessary and stuff (snurfle) … I needa bow my ose (snurrrrrrfle … snurf).” I. Am. So. Pretty. Mary likes washing my face after I’ve been crying. It’s just one of those ways that she likes to take care of me, and I like letting her. But this was the first time she took my tooth brush from me. “I can do it,” I said to her and made (alleged) grabby hands for my toothbrush. “No, I think you’re too little today.” “I’m not little ever.” Mary answered that by looking at the spot I’d left on her shirt (is it still a ‘spot’ if it’s the size of a … shirt?). Hmmph! “But …” “Daff, I got this. You’ll be okay. Hop up on the counter.” “But that’ll hurt.” “Yeah, cuz I spanked your bottom,” she said in what I perceived to be a smug tone. I mean, yeah she did, but does she gotta be so happy about it? Never you mind how happy it makes me when she’s happy. And she lifted me by my hips right onto the counter. “Hhhh!” I may have gasped, but only from surprise at how strong she is and not out of pain cuz I’m not susceptible to pain. What even is that? I, for one, don’t know and certainly have never derived any emotional or physical pleasure from it. That’s for sure. Um, really. “We’ll get that yucky soap out of your teeth, and we’ll get you a bath, and …” “I already took a shower today.” “Then I’ll just rub you all over with soap and rinse you off. How’s that sound?” “Like a bath.” “Don’t you get smart with me, missy. You know I won’t hesitate to spank your bottom twice in one day.” True story; fun day; more fun after the fact than during. “Sorry.” “Daff, look at me.” Which I did, and all I could say is awwwwwwwww. She was making her I-love-my-Daphne face and I’m a total pushover for that. “If you keep apologizing, the bath brush is coming off the wall.” Sweet lord, she loves me! She really loves me!

Yeah, and Daffy is dead right - she says a ton of nonsense! You only see what comes out of her mouth whereas I am privy to every last bit. Tbh, she’s a bit much sometimes ?

Other options include But not really - really! But only cuz Mary says