Alex Bridges

One day (but probably not) I could start a sequel series titles “Okay, I Might Be a Little Girl“

I’m telling Daphne you said that! ?

Scene #205 I would’ve noticed Mary’s surprised I-can’t-believe-she-just-said-that face, but I was too busy thinking to myself, holy fudge muffins, Daphne, I can’t believe you just said that! Cuz I still can’t believe I said that. True story. Mary got visibly anxious with the clenching and unclenching of the fists and walking in such a tight circle that really she just turned around and turned around again. It would’ve made me very nervous, but (A) I had already made myself very nervous and (2) I was busy catastrophising in my head to notice very much. “What …” Mary asked. “No!” “What no?” “No, I don’t know what I mean or what that means or what I want.” “Deep breath.” Why!?! Which of us is hyperventilating? I’ll you who - ME! That’s who! “Heeeeehoooooo.” Give Mary credit for having a good idea. ‘There goes, Daphne,’ people say, ‘She always gives credit where credit is due, but damn does she have big feelings she has a hard time sorting out sometimes.’ Those people have a point is what they have. “If sit down, will you sit with me,” Mary asked. “Yeah,” I said and didn’t even flop down in Mary’s lap. I’m not a flopper. In fact, I’m quite rigid. Really. Shut up! “Who are you mad at?” So many people! But actually, “No one. I only thought I was. Or I was but I’m over it. Or I was mad at life and took it out on others … you. Sorry.” “It’s okay. I’m glad we had this talk finally.” “What now?” “What do you mean what now?” “I finally called you my mommy.” “Well, you should probably start calling me ‘mommy’ or maybe ‘mama’ all the time.” “Hmmph! No.” “Mommy.” “Mary.” “Mama.” “Mary.” “Ma … ma.” “Ma … ry.” “You are such a tease,” she said and tickled my side where I’m ticklish which is why she tickles me there. Did I mention she’s mean ever, cuz she is even sometimes when she’s being very nice. “Nothing’s changed, Daffy.” “It didn’t?” “Not unless you want it to. Do you want something to change?” “No … Yeah.” “What?” “The next time we see Ann, you’re too busy performatively smothering me with affection to notice her.” “What are we performing?” “Best lesbian ageplay couple. It’s very important for reasons I can’t explain that Jo and Ann know that we’re way gayer for each other than the two of them could ever be.” “You’re a silly goose. Do you know that?” “I’m a jealous, bitchy goose riddled with insecurities.” “You’re a goose who’s much too hard on herself. But ya know what?” “You like me anyway?” “I like you anyway, and I think it’s just a phase you’ll grow out of.” “Really?” “Sure. Little girls go through all sorts of phases.” “Marrrry! I’m not a little girl.” “You’re my little girl.” “I suppose you wanna have make-up sex now.” “Why? Did we have a fight? … O! You’re doing that thing where you get crudely sexual to distract from your embarrassment.” “O my gawd! Stop calling me out.” She’s always calling me out. I mean, yeah, someone needs to cuz there’s literally no other limit on the endless font of nonsense that comes outta me, but she could also, ya know, not. “You’re over tired,” she straight up called me out again. “Only cuz I’ve been stressing about this party for days and got my emotions all knotted up,” I straight up called myself out. Mary gave me a peck on the cheek and went to the bathroom, coming back up with a warm damp washcloth. “Look up for me,” she said and I turned my quote “pretty face” up unquote so she wipe at the almost non-existent tear streaks on my face. “You’re mothering me,” I said super sarcastically but, ya know, not. “I’m taking care of you. When do I not wipe your cheeks when you’ve been crying?” “Some of the time.” She folded the washcloth and held it in front of my nose. “Honk.” “I don’t hafta blow.” “Humor me.” Ugh. Fine. “(Hooooonk!)” So turns out I did hafta. “Sorry I got teary,” I told her. “Promise I don’t do it to emotionally blackmail you.” “O shush. Lay back; all the way like you’re going to sleep.” “Um, why?” “Cuz you’re going to sleep, silly. Be right back; just gonna toss this in the hamper, and then I’ll tuck you in.” “Wait, you’re not coming to bed?” “Of course I am; right after I tuck you in.”” “O…kay.” “I like tucking you in, okay? It’s a mommy thing.” “We need to negotiate that word,” I said cuz it’s still super complicated and let’s, ya know, not get carried away or even really think of what I said as having any meaning at all. Yep, that would be the safest play: return to our state of detente. “Not tonight we don’t.” “I’m still not a little girl.” “You’re still my little girl.“ And then! And then she put the wash cloth in the hamper, kissed me on the forehead, and tucked the covers all the way under my chin. And then! And then!!! She got in bed next to me and snuggled up so close and made these happy sighing noises. I think I make her happy or something.

Scene #204 “Okay,” Mary said in her I’m-fed-up-with-this-frosty-silence voice when we were getting ready for bed after we got home, “what did I miss? You were doing okay, and then you got the look.” “What look,” I didn’t say in the most passive aggressive you-mean-this-look-and-this-matching-tone-of-voice tone ever? “That look.” Ooo, big Miss Mary folding her arms like she has a valid point just because her point is valid. Well, screw that! Where to even start with the many ways the evening sucked? For one, Jo and Ann were the center of attention. And for another, their names are fine on their own but stupid together (Joann? Not that they call themselves that, but they could, and these people are not Branjelina, lemme tell you). And Jane and Tommy were so much more interested in Ann than in me. And Brenna and Lisa were … Like everyone wanted to make the newcomers feel welcome, which is so the right thing to do and I don’t care. FUCK! I hate this. I hate feeling this way. It’s stupid and not necessary and since when did I turn into the world’s most insecure titmouse? What happened to the me who met her wife while letting people I barely knew at the time spank me? What happened to her confidence? “Can we not talk about it? I mean, not tonight,” I asked. Mary sighed and gave me her nope face. “I think we should talk about it.” I knew she was gonna say that. I just sighed and made my woe-is-me face. I gotta say, I’m really getting insufferable, in my opinion. “We’re not going to bed like this. Did someone say something? Do something?” If Mary thinks she can defrost my frosty silence by being reasonable, well, she’s got another thing coming. “C’mon,” Mary said and led me to the bedside and pulled me over her lap. “Are you kidding me right now!?! What did I even do?” “Nothing, but sometimes you talk more when you’re over my knee.” “I do not!” I couldn’t see her face, but I knew it had that this-is-my-sarcastic-if-you-say-so look of hers all over it. “I’ve gotten you to confess an awful lot of things with you in this position.” “Let me up!” SPANK. Not a hard one. Didn’t even hurt. “I’m serious, Daphne Ann. You don’t have to look at me from there. Won’t that make it easier to tell me what you’re feeling?” I hate it when she has a point. She usually does. I do, too, but only around eighty percent of the time (seventy percent max on my best day). “I don’t like Ann. There, happy?” SPANK! Okay, that one had a little zing in it. “Please don’t get snippy with me.” She paused to see if I had anything more to say. “Why don’t you like Ann?” “Because she’s just so … She’s … She’s … She’s fine. She’s totally unobjectionable and nice and she makes friends easily, and they’re my friends and I don’t wanna share.” “Okay, I hear you saying that, and I believe you, but that’s why you’re mad at Ann. Why are you mad at me?” “I wasn’t until you pulled me over your knee.” “Yes, you were. What did I do? Tell me, and I’ll apologize.” “She and Jane and Tommy got right into their little headspaces, and you just went right along with them and Ann sat on your knee, and you let her! Okay? Not over your knee. On your knee. Right in your lap like she’s … You do it with Jane too.” “Do what?” “You get all into this big headspace and just … The way you looked at her.” “It’s roleplay, Daphne.” “I know, but … I don’t like it.” “Are you saying you’re jealous of the way I treat Jane when she’s being little, and the way I was with Ann.” “Not jealous. Just … something like jealous but not.” “O … kay. Like envious?” “No.” “Like what then?” Hate admitting when she has a point, but she was probably right that there was no way I’d say this while looking her in the eye. “I don’t want other people to make you that happy,” I told her before that sentence even made sense to me. I could practically hear her cocking her head to the side and making her whoa-try-that-on-me-again face. “What does that mean,” she asked me quietly. Shrinking your voice down to barely above a whisper during hard conversations is a me move. Mary doesn’t really do that unless she’s worried she did something to hurt my feelings. “I wanna be the only person who can make you that happy.” “It’s roleplay,” she said again. She sounded confused and a little mystified, and I don’t blame her one bit for it. “No, it’s not. I mean, it is, but you … You should see how happy you looked when Ann rushed up to you when she was being little. Maybe it is just roleplay, but it makes you so happy.” I am, by the way, aware of just how unfair this is to Mary. She’s allowed to be as happy as she wants to be whenever she wants to be. But I’m also allowed to not like it just like I’m allowed to really dislike myself for feeling that way in the moment, which I did. I felt like a straight up toxic person. “I’m sorry,” I said as I sniffed. “I know I’m not being fair, and I feel awful for feeling that way. I don’t like that I’m jealous but I am and it’s ugly and I’m sorry.” “Sit up,” she said and helped me. She opened her arms, and we held each other very tight. Also not fair that she’s much stronger than me cuz her tight is like a damn death grip sometimes. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said to me. “I don’t mean to.” “I know.” “It’s just … You get that way with littles. I thought it was just Jane, but you were the same way with Ann, and we hardly know her.” “I just like it. It’s fun to get excited and make them smile. I like making them feel special.” “I wanna make you that happy.” “You do, Daffy.” “I wanna make you smile like that.” “You do.” “It’s not the same, the way you look at them. I can tell.” Wow, I really shouldn’t have said that. “That’s not true, Daphne. Don’t you tell me I don’t look at you the same way.” She sounded cross, in a gentle way but the sharpness in her tone was unmistakable. “It’s roleplay. I feel so many ways about you that I never feel about Jane, and I don’t even know Ann. Don’t tell me I don’t just because I put on a face for them. It’s roleplay. I’ll stop if you want me to, but don’t try to tell me that this is because of how I feel and not because of how you feel.” I slid off her lap and sat next to her facing the room but not looking at anything. “I’m sorry.” Also missing back when I used to be able to have this kind of conversation (or was this a fight?) and not cry. “You’re jealous, Daff. That’s what you’re feeling, and you’re making yourself feel worse. It’s okay to feel jealous sometimes.” “I just … It’s not just that. I don’t like feeling like they can give you something I can’t.” “Daff, look at me.” I did. She had such a serious face on, I didn’t even give it a quirky name. “You don’t like sharing me with other littles.” O my fucking gawd. “I’m not a little!” “What then? What do you think they’re giving me that you aren’t? You are everything. You are …” She shook her head. “Fucking cliché,” she muttered. “You are my whole life. You’re everything I ever wanted or will want, and I’ve made sure you know that in every way I possibly can. You don’t like seeing me being a big to other littles. You have no problem seeing me be a domme with other subs, but you get upset when I’m being a big with Jane and now with Ann.” “I don’t.” “I’ve seen you shoot daggers out of your eyes at Jane when she’s in little space and wants my attention, and you looked ready to slap Ann across the face.” “That’s … It’s got nothing to do with her being a little.” “Yes it does! Why is that so hard? I don’t care if you want to call yourself a little or not. You’re … You’re Daphne! You’re you. I don’t care about labeling roles. I don’t care about all the friggin connotations. I care that we keep ending up back in this exact same conversation, and I don’t know how to break out of this pattern. Sometimes it’s me; sometimes it was my fault, and I apologized til I was blue in the face. But this isn’t. This is you inventing a reason to be upset.” “That is not fair, Mary!” She sighed heavily and softened her voice. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “Okay, so we slipped into the ageplay thing together by accident, but you’re the one who leaned into it first. You’re the one who pushed the boundaries. She took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry, and you’re right. But I still don’t know what you want me to do. Just tell me, and I’ll do it. You know I will. All you have to do is say it.” “I don’t know what I want you to do.” “Do you want me to stop being big with Ann?” My turn to take a deep breath. “No.” “Then what? Daphne, I need you to tell me what the solution is here.” “I don’t have a solution. You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Then I guess I don’t understand.” O my god, what have we been talking about? Fine, lemme spell it out for ya: “You’re not her mommy!” “So it is about her being little and me being big!” “Yes! But no. It’s about … affection. When littles … You get affectionate. You use … You don’t talk to me like that. You don’t act the same way in the same way, if that makes any sense.” It must’ve because her response was, “If I did, you’d get pissed at me. Every time I’ve come close, it’s ended in a conversation like this.” “I know.” “So then what are you saying,” she practically pleaded with me. “I already said it.” “What, Daphne? What?” “YOU’RE NOT HER MOMMY! YOU’RE MINE!”

Scene #203 I had to basically fight off Mary. That’s always fun when it’s cuz she’s thirsty, but this was more along the lines of, “We never go to dinner parties. Lemme dress you up.” She was giving off serious mom vibes, specifically my mom who would always insist that for any remotely special event, she decided what everyone wore. But I can dress myself just fine. I was pretty and everything. I mean, it wasn’t even a fancy dinner party. Even calling it a dinner party overstates how formal it was meant to be. It was just a get together at which dinner would be served. Mary’s main contribution to our preparation, other than fussing over me like a mother hen, was watching me bake dessert. The woman is a bottomless ocean of wholesome kinks. “Ooo,” she said before I could get my measuring cup into the flour, “wait a sec.” And in a flash, she was putting an apron on me. Not that I’m criticizing cuz Mary in an apron makes me feel these weird feelings, but do I really just sit and watch her cook when she wears one? (Yes. Yes, I do sometimes.) Aproned and baking, Mary took the time to pat me on the head and tell me what a good baker I am, and I took the time to say, “A girl baker.” “Mhmm.” “A good baker and a girl baker. That would make me a …” “A good girl baker.” “Shorten it.” “Good girl.” Squee! Not to be bragging or nothing, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl. All to say that the day was delightful and no one, not even me, started out with any attitude. “It would be a shame,” I hinted as subtly as Mary when she warns me about my (alleged mis)behavior, “to share this cake with others when we could eat the whole thing ourselves. I mean, I’m already sharing it with you.” True story – if Mary ever goes back to work in an office, I’m gonna bake and eat entire cakes while she’s gone. “We’re going to the party. End of story,” she declared. If either of us was in a mood prior to the party, it was Mary in a declarative mood. “That’s not what I was suggesting.” “Then what we’re you suggesting?” Crap. Think quickly! “That we, uh, could get a store-bought cake to take with us.” Of course, it would then be a shame to share that cake with others … My life needs more cake. Mary’s I-don’t-believe-you gave. “Uh-huh. You wanna tell me why you don’t want wanna go?” “It’s not that I don’t wanna go. It’s just that … I’d rather stay home. Which is different … because reasons and stuff.” “You’re always saying how bored you are and you wish we saw our friends more. One offers to host a nice get together and you wanna stay home.” “I’m a woman of contradictions … I have layers.” “We’re going, and you will have a good time.” Would t’were so simple. If all it took was a decree from Queen Mary So-And-So (first of her name, empress of all the lesbians named Daphne who live in our house), I’d have no excuse for ever not having fun. I’d just say, ‘Mary, do you mind decreeing I have a good time?’ And she’d so degree cuz she likes me and stuff, and a good time would be had by all. But t’wis not so simple. “But Mary,” I said, “new people.” Didn’t whine. Did not whine. I didn’t whine all day, which adds plus-one days to my infinity streak of not ever whining. “Ann and Jo aren’t new. We know them.” “In the context of … bilateral relations. It was just us and them. They’re gonna be there with our friends, and the group dynamic will be different, and … newness.” “Newness is good,” she’s reminded me. “You know that.” “Yeah, but …” “But what?” “Nothing. That’s all I got. ‘But …’” And I only went on offense cuz I was feeling defensive for no reason out of nowhere. “Then I’m wearing whatever I want.” “Okay.” “No diapers.” “Alright.” “Or pull-ups.” “Fine by me.” So we both went there in perfectly perfect moods fully prepared to have a good time. Really. But that’s not what happened.

Scene #202 “Daffy,” someone sang to me. “Daaaaaaffffy. I think you’ve slept in long enough.” O friggin fine. I rolled over and greeted her with, “Urrrrrrrrrrrrf!” “How are you still sleepy? You’ve been asleep for ten hours.” “No circadian rhythm shaming.” I’m not a morning person, and I’m not an evening person. I thrive between eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon. I’m a mid-day person, one of The Lunch People. Rare is the day Mary lets me sleep past eight, something about not sleeping our lives away and liking it when we’re both awake and corporate productivity and stuff and things. She let me sleep in cuz we have a party to go to, and while I think I’m the life of the party, she claims (she just makes stuff up, really) lives of the party don’t fall asleep on the host’s bed no matter how well they know the host. I mean, it was one time! She never lets me live stuff down. She does, however, have a point about how me sleeping in doesn’t actually make me more energized. Hence my waking groan. “Are you feeling okay?” Mary bent down to put her lips on my forehead. I don’t know how effective that is as a way to check for a fever, but it ends in a kiss and I like it and stuff. “Yeah. Do I really have to get up?” “Yeah.” “Does Suzie really hafta get it? Surely you wouldn’t make the dog get up.” And if the dog was to stay peacefully asleep, surely I needed to stay right by her side snuggled up together. Dogs are warm. I mean, Mary is a better and more considerate sleeping companion, but Suzie is in her adolescent stage and has turned into the floofiest stuffy. “Suzie can do what she likes,” Mary said and with a whoosh pulled the covers down. Suzie gave Mary a look that, had I given it, I would’ve gotten my tail paddled for (which is a thing that’s happened before and how can a look be quote ‘massively disrespectful, majorly bratty, and unacceptable’ unquote; I ask and I answer, it can’t because reasons; really). She got up, shook herself all over, and went to find another place to sleep. “If you stay in bed,” Mary said, “how are you gonna get that soggy diaper changed? Unless you like soggy diapers. Is that it?” I am so giving her the look but hiding it behind my poker face right now. “About that, Mary? How many times do I hafta say I don’t like diapers, I don’t need diapers, and I only wear them for you?” “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the scent of overnight weewee.” “Frumpeter nursherder!” “But seriously, you stink.” “What the heck kind of good morning is this? Is it Be Mean To Daffy Day again, cuz I hate those days.” “It’s Give Daffy a Morning Bath Day because you smell like dog and pee.” “The only thing that (sniff-sniff) … Okay.” “Ha!” What do you think she meant by that? “Bet you can’t carry me,” I said cheekily. “Like a little girl?” “I was thinking more like a queen, but I’ll settle for bride carried over the threshold.” “Of the bathroom.” “Of the bathroom, yes.” That’s where we were going. She’s so silly sometimes. “Don’t think I can carry you, but how about being spank-marched?” “Ooo, good idea. Yes please.” I propelled myself to my feet with a helping hand from Mary. She’s so romantic and stuff: she twisted my arm behind my back and swatted my butt all twelve steps to the bathroom. Liking my butt is probably the first thing we knew we had in common, what with her yanking me over her knee at a play party before we even knew each other’s names. “I’m going to run the bath, just in case there’s anything you’d like to do in that diaper before you get in the tub.” “I don’t even know what you’re hinting at. And I don’t ‘want’ to do anything in this diaper.” I’d just rather do it in the diaper than in the tub, but that’s not even a free choice cuz Mary is big and strong and in charge of me. I mean, I guess I could pee in the tub, but ew. “Uh-huh,” was all Mary said. She put her hand under the running water cuz she’s love me too much to scald me and she … “Hey!” … groped me. And you know what she said? Well, I’ll tell you what she said. She said, “If what’s coming out of you is 98.6, I’d guess the bath water is 105, 110.” “(Embarrassed kitten noises).” She should really be careful with that kind of humiliation in the bathroom. If I faint and hit my head it’ll be her fault. What happened, the paramedics will ask. I made fun of her diaper, Mary will say. And even if I’m dead I’ll die of embarrassment all over again. It’ll be really upsetting for everyone. “Are you done making tinkles?” “(Whimpering wombat noises).” Is she trying to kill me!?! “Ya know how neither of us is into degradation,” Mary asked rhetorically as she untaped her diaper (unequivocally hers; I just happened to be holding it for her using only my hips). “What do you think it means that I think it’s hot that you smell like pee like a subby little bedwetter?” I’m a very smart, insightful woman. In a past life, I was the only Oracle of Delphi who didn’t need drugs to come up with answers in riddle form. I taught Steven Hawking everything he knew. Reinhard Nielbuhr never could follow my reasoning yet could only agree in stunned silence with my conclusions. I know stuff. And things. Things like how much we (me and Mary, that is; RIP ol’ Reiny) would regret knowing the answer to her question. That’s how insightful I am - I didn’t even need to know the answer to know we’d both regret it. See, it’s like going to restaurant with a cuisine you’ve never had before: if it looks funny and smells funny and has a name you can’t pronounce and you’re enjoying it, never, ever ask ‘what’s in it?’ Because once you know the answer, it doesn’t taste good anymore. I’m just saying, Mary and I had been, ahem, dining on each other for years. Let’s not yuck our own yums, ya know? “If I let you finger me in the bathtub, can we not answer that question?” SMACK! “Ow! For fuck’s …” “SMACK!!! “OW!” “Language, young lady. You’d better not plan on talking that way in front of the other guests tonight. In the tub.” “What have we said about spanking the front,” I harrumphed as I got in the tub with a tingling sting I didn’t hate. “That I decide when, why, how, and where you get spanked, whether that’s on your American fanny in public or your British fanny right before your bath.” So she does remember. Drat. “Well, I’m not British.” “Yeah, but when I call it your pu…” “Lalala sensitive … “Little ears. Exactly, you do that. And you’re lucky you’re not British. Do you know what they do to gingers over there?” “Even daywalkers like me?” “Even daywalkers.” I took my right heel and planted it on the edge of the tub. “Wash, slave girl.” Ooo, Mary’s if-it-wouldn’t-get-water-everywhere-I’d-yank-you-out-of-the-tub-and-paddle-you-purple face. “I swear, if it wouldn’t make a mess yanking you right out of that tub, the bath brush would be off the wall and your butt would be purple already.” We know each other so well! Soul mates! “Uh-huh,” I said and (get this) handed her the soap. And you know what she did? Well, I’ll tell you what she did. She took the soap and made it sudsy and started running it in long strokes up and down my leg. Sigh. “You,” she said in an attempt to salvage her defeat (cuz who won that exchange? Well, I’ll tell you who won that exchange: me. I won that exchange), “are like living with a teenager some times.” “Cuz I’m so full of life?” “Cuz it’s a pain getting you out of bed, and when I finally do, you’re the biggest smartass.” “The biggest? So I get a prize, right?” “O, you’ll get a prize alright, but I’m gonna save it for Brenna’s tonight.” “Is it a dinner party or a play party?” “Have you ever been to a dinner party at Brenna’s that didn’t turn into a play party? Gimme your other leg.” “It’s so sexy when you demand parts of my body.” “I own you body and soul, Daffodil. I have a contract to that effect.” “It was just a valentine.” “Binding contract the moment you signed it.” I was going to contest her understanding of our state’s contract laws, but the soap (and Mary’s arm up to her elbow) disappeared under the water and made me go, “Eep!” “Been a while since we went to a party,” Mary said. “Have you thought about what you’ll do differently this time?” Huh? “Was I … supposed to? And different from what?” “So you don’t remember standing in timeout in Brenna’s living room and me saying your red hot butt was to make sure you’ll make better choices next time?” I’m a very busy woman. It’s unfair to expect me to remember things like that. I mean, my days are just packed! I … make lunch, and do dishes. Take care of the dog. Go to the grocery store. I mean, um, there are only 168 hours in a week, and every last one of them is mine to do with as I please, but I still have lots of pressing … I was probably crying when I acknowledged Mary’s admonishment, and I’m always getting in trouble at those parties and doesn’t that just prove that Mary’s style of discipline is ineffective? In fact, I’ve long had my suspicions that it’s really an elaborate sex thing anyway, but Mary is so earnest when she says it’s not, and it’s not like people ever lie about sex, right? Mary never would cuz she’s all upstanding and prim and proper and stuff. Really. Even if she does use the p-word to describe a certain part of my anatomy. Really. “Do you even remember what you did to earn that spanking,” Mary asked me. O puh-leaze. Just cuz I woke up in a diaper doesn’t mean I was born yesterday. “Do you even remember what I did?” “… You’re mouthy today.” Ha! Bluff: called. “And you’re a subject changer.” “Just tell me what you’re going to try to do tonight.” “I’m gonna try to get along with Jane and Tommy.” Jane, for those of you new to perv-reading my diary, is my bestie/a bratty little who always manages to get me in trouble, and Tommy is a little/pain in the ass who has a special talent for getting on my last nerve and killing it with fire. I don’t know what I did to get in trouble at Brenna’s last party, but I can be positive one or both of them started it. “And not roll your eyes like you just did, and come tell me if the other littles aren’t being nice to you.” “…thinks she so subtle,” I mumbled. “And give Ann and Jo a chance. I know you don’t like adding people to our group, but they’e super nice and Brenna wanted to meet them.” “Explain to me again what’s wrong with me resenting them and wanting things to stay the way they are,” I said without pouting even a little bit. If you ever hear otherwise, punch them in the sternum and tell them Tommy told you to.

“Arrogating” is what I was going for, and I am not Miss Maloprop cuz reasons and stuff ????

“Arrogating” is what I was going for, and I am not Miss Maloprop cuz reasons and stuff ????

??see, what happened is I’ve been eating a lot of soup, see, and I bought some soup spoons ($10) and sat down to eat my soup and had the epiphany - all spoons are soup spoons ?

Scene #201 Ow. Ow. Ow! This is so unnecessary. I didn’t - ow! - even do - dammit! - anything remotely worthy - OW! - of a spanking. “Are you learning your lesson,” Mary asked me. “Y -ow! - es! Yes!” “Sound a little bratty to me still.” Spankspankspankspank! “Owowow!!!” “Tell me what you learned.” “All spoons - ow - are soup spoons.” “One more time without the dramatics.” O. My. Gawd! Which of us was being dramatic? I’ll tell you who - Mary! “All spoons are soup spoons.” This is without doubt the dumbest argument we’ve ever had. “And spending thirty dollars on ‘soup spoons’ is not a smart use of our funds, is it?” Mary and her stupid oral air quotes. “N-eep! No!” And with one final spank, she let me up. I wanted o so badly to point out to her that the wooden spoon she’d administered that spanking with was not, in fact, at all suited for soup (the eating of; the making of it does quite well), especially having been applied to my butt. But did I make my very valid point? I did not. I stood quietly rubbing my butt and giving Mary my signature I’m-grumpy-at-you look. O, the times I’ve rubbed my butt and given her my I’m-grumpy-at-you look; I could write a book. I know I shouldn’t have been making grumpy faces at Miss Mary If-The-First-Spanking-Didn’t-Work-Let’s-Try-Another but the plain truth of the matter is I wasn’t repentant at all. In fact, I’m going to make soup for dinner (after thoroughly washing the wooden spoon), and I’m going to put a regular spoon at Mary’s place setting and one of our new soup spoons at mine and we’ll just see who enjoys her soup more. Take that, Mary! And before you even think it, that is neither feeble nor passive aggressive nor ridiculous; there, I saved you the trouble of having a specious thought. You’re welcome. “Someone is feeling her oats today,” Mary replied to my withering dirty look that didn’t wither her at all. I’m secretly glad of that; who wants a withered Mary? Not me; that’s who doesn’t. And I didn’t even touch my oats! Really! Whatever that means … “I didn’t deserve that spanking,” I sassed. That’s the second bravest sass a spanking bottom with a spanked bottom can sass ( the first is “that didn’t even hurt,” which I’m brave enough to say but wise enough not to. Brave and wise, that’s me and I’m awesome). “It’s not like I broke the spending limit rule.” Which still hasn’t been adjusted for inflation, which was problematic even before it became a problem. “No, you called me a name. Little girls who resort to name calling get their little girl bottoms spanked.” “You just called me a name!” “I know this is hard for little girls to understand, Daffy, but an accurate description isn’t name calling just because you don’t like it.” “You … You … Hmmph!” For the record, I called her a philistine for not appreciating the pleasures of soup supped from a true soup spoon at soup supping time … which are myriad and complex and that sophisticates, such as myself, have neither the time nor the obligation to explain to those not given to a preternatural understanding or the powers of logic to deduce on their own. And shut up! I do too know what they are, and I’m not a snob. I’m merely a petit scioness of the petit bourgeois getting a little bourgeoisier (?) the longer I live off the largesse of my dear darling wife. And I’ll tell you another thing before getting back to the main story line - I have not and do not and will never make any malapropisms. Nyeh! “I thought,” Mary said cuz she likes to say stuff to me (true story - I’m her favorite person to talk to), “a pink bottom would remind you of just what a little girl you are, but I think you need to be taken down a peg or three still.” “I don’t need that,” I didn’t whine. “Said the whiny little girl.” “Marrrrryyy, I do notttttt, whiiiiiiiine,” I definitely positively cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-live-long-and-prosper did not whine. Realllllllyyyyy!!!! “Come along, little one,” she said and just took my hand without even asking and led me up our stairs. “I’m not little; I’m just waiting for a growth spurt.” “I was referring to your maturity rather than your size. Now,” she said as she spun us around and put both her hands on my shoulders, looking down her (cute) nose at me (cuz I’m short and she’s tall and that’s how slacks relations work); I knew what she was going to do before she even did it cuz she had her I’m-gonna-push-you-down-onto-the-bed look on display. “On the bed.” And then she pushed me down onto the bed. Saw it coming; literally. “Yipe!” Flat on my back. She can only do that cuz I let her and because she’s bigger and stronger and my pants are so often tangled around my knees and/or ankles. “My little girl makes little girl sounds,” she said as she disappeared into the closet to get one of her diapers. They are SO hers. Just because I wear them doesn’t change the fact that she owns them. She owns me too, which is consensual and delightful and all the stuff and things. If, for a random instance, Mary says, “You’re wearing diapers for the rest of the day,” then I, being obedient and a good rule follower and all the stuff and things, say, “No! Mary! No! Bad, Mary!” And I pound my fists and heels into the mattress to show her that I am (1) my own person and (B) not a little girl and (blue) displeased. “I am this close to medicating you at bedtime tonight,” she said like … hmmph! “You tossed and turned all night, and you’re the grumpiest little girl today because of it. I’m gonna lace your nighttime baba with melatonin.” “I don’t have a nighttime baba,” I didn’t pout. “You do if I say you do.” Aw. Touché. “It’s sweet of you to cooperate,” she said as I lifted my butt to receive her diaper, “but I don’t need you to.” For the record, I was only cooperating cuz I’m a good girl. She yanked my jeans and panties off my legs in one go, magically leaving my socks in place and making me wonder if she can do that magician trick where they rip away the table cloth without disturbing the place settings. She is a sorceress, after all. “I,” she said as she lifted my ankles, “can diaper an uncooperative little girl just as easily as a cooperative one.” “Wait.” “Nope,” she said meanly like a meanie. “I need to go to the bathroom first.” “O,” she said with this sudden she-wolf look in her eye. Ruh-roh. “Have you had to potty for a while?” “Y-yes?” “It’s so cute when little girls aren’t sure if they have to potty.” “But I am sure.” “Then why you’d say it like a question? I guess I should count myself lucky you didn’t lose control of your little girl weewee while you were across my lap getting your bottom spanked pink. Wouldn’t that have been awful for you? All you big girl illusions taken away in one sorry episode of fraidy cat pants peeing over a widdle smacked bottom.” “Marrryyy!” “Are you whining cuz you’re trying so very hard to hold on to your big girl illusions or cuz you’re trying very hard to hold on to your little girl bladder? Will you piddle a little if I do this,” she said and put her hand right over my bladder and pressed. “Eeeep!” I eeeped. Despite being a good girl, I tried to roll away, but Miss Mary I-still-have-you-by-the-ankles Taylor held fast. “Told you I can diaper uncooperative little girls just fine. Little girl ankles down; little girl knees wide; little girl diaper area covered by the little girl’s diaper, and tape and tape and tape and tape. Doesn’t my little girl look cute in her pampers? Yes you do! A-yes you do!” “But I hafta pee.” “You can do it now, or you can do it while you’re asleep cuz it’s nap time.” “I’m not a bedwetter!” “Not yet, but who knows? Maybe you’ll grow into it. Don’t make that pouty face at me.” “I’m not pouting … I’m sulking.” “And I’m covering you with this blanket and rescinding your pants privileges for the day.” “But it’s cold.” “You can carry your blankie around. In fact, if you wanna spend thirty dollars so bad, you can pick out five potential security blankets, and I’ll pick one out for you after work. But first, nap. If I come up here and find you out of bed, your cute little pink tushy is gonna be red. “Hmmph.” And get this - she kissed me. Such effrontery from a philistine peasant woman. She should be carrying sheaves of wheat on her back and gleaning the fields, not being the boss of me like I asked her to be. It’s almost like she loves me or something or like I’m the most precious thing in her world and stuff. Weird. Anyhoo, fast forward through twenty minutes of tossing and turning … “Daphne Ann,” she called out before she even opened the bedroom door, “what did I tell you about being out of …” “I’m not,” I said she as opened the door to find me still in bed. Told you I’m a good girl. Nyeh! “I heard you from downstairs.” “I haven’t gotten out from under the blanket! Really!” “Why is your face flushed? You must’ve been doing some …” Away she tore my blanket. Very rude. “And why is one side of your diaper untaped? You got up to use the potty, didn’t you? You are in so much trouble, young lady.” “I didn’t!” “Uh-huh. Up.” “No, really! I didn’t! Look. It’s wet.” “What is … O, it sure it. Your yellow stripe is green.” Never have I ever wanted to wipe the look of self-satisfaction off her face so badly. Ever and never. “Just barely,” she smugly said. “You piddle the cutest little puddle ms in your pampers. Are you done?” “I resent that question so much.” “Why is your diaper untaped?” “I, um, was just adjusting the fit.” “Are you saying I didn’t do a good job diapering my little girl?” Wow; there’s no right way to answer that. She took my hand cuz she’s a She-Sherlock who suspected something based on last experience and knowing me very well and I won’t tell you how she deduced what she deduced; I’ll just tell you the deduction. “I think,” she said cuz she’s one of the all-time greatest thinkers, “a certain little girl who says she’s not a little girl was jilling off in one of her diapers she claims to hate so much. Is that what you were doing?” “ … I resent that question … so, so much.” “Up.” “But I didn’t get out of bed,” I said as I got up. “I don’t deserve a spankinggggg,” I whined (but righteously, so it’s okay and doesn’t make me a whiner). “Over my lap,” she said as she sat down in my place. “But I didn’t do anythinggggg,” I resoundingly resounded in a very stentorian, non-whiny way cuz my earlier righteous whine was just a transitory phase I was already so totally over even as I put myself across her knees. “I leave you alone for twenty minutes, and you wet your diaper and start masturbating in it.” She let that hang there a moment. “Good girl.” Huh? I mean, squeeee! My wife thinks I’m a good girl! But huh? And then she took her hand and … she did these things. And she did them to me. With her hand. From behind and underneath. These … things. “Was it your spanking, your diapering, your wetting, or the many reminders of what a little girl you are that had you so aroused? … Or was the whole greater than the sum of its parts, hmm? … My-my, Daffy. The back of your ears are turning such a pretty shade of red. Is it cuz you’re embarrassed or cuz you’re about to cum? Cat got your tongue?” For the record, no, I had my own tongue, thank you very much. I was biting it to keep from making noises I’d regret. “From now on, little girl, if you wanna tickle yourself after I put you in your huggies, then you do it through the diaper or in it, but those tapes stay on or the bath brush comes off the wall. Understand? Make a sex noise if you understand.” “Ehemmmmm-eh.” “Good girl.” Hear what she called me? Cuz I certainly did. “Eh! Hhhhh!” “Can’t control her cummies or her weewee, but that okay cuz you’re in a diaper. My good little girl.” “Ahh! Hhhh! Eh! Mmmm!” “That’s it; let it all out. Your diaper will get it all. Good girl.” Her hand slowed down slowly, until I was, um, spent, which was much appreciated, and then she pushed my shirt up and start rubbing and tickling the small of my back with her fingertips, which is just delightful. “(Yawwwwwwn!)” “Just needed to take care of that before you could sleep, is that it?” “Mhmm.” “I’m sorry I got cross with you. On your feet … Aww, you look a little wobbly there, Daff. Back in bed.” “Stop (yawwwwn) drawing mis-conclusions and (yawwwwwwwwn!) go back to work.” “Feisty to whiny to feisty again. Maybe after your nap, you’ll be my sweet little girl again. Hold still … there. I better not see you’ve moved that tape again when I come back up here.” “Or what (yawwwwwn!)? You’ll make me cum again?” “What do we say?” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome. Now, close those peepers and stay in bed, and I just might make you a snack when I get you up.” Ya’ll are gonna think I’m weird for saying this, but I’m pretty sure Mary likes me. Post script: I caught her eating ice cream with a soup spoon! I have so much work to do civilizing her.

Guilend will not rest until Daffy is over Mary’s knee getting spanked on a full diaper ? As always, love your persistence, hun ?

Scene #200 “Go to your Nana’s.” This was the directive ringing in my ears, a tinnitus suspiciously resonant with the lingering vibration in my butt. Yep, ladies and boys (mostly boys, buncha pervs), Mary is definitively back at work. I can tell cuz she’s been saying stuff like, “Daffy, can you not see I’m working?” It well and truly (Truly? Yes, truly.) sucks that she can’t do fun stuff during the day. Of course, Nana says I’m welcome anytime. I think sometimes she’s as bored as I am. Or not. Sometimes I think I’m finally in a groove and the days seem to go by so fast, and other days it feels like I’m back at Square Wuhn learning how to be retired. Nana’s been retired a lot longer than me. She seems to get it. Now, I’m a very good rule follower, so a knock-knock-knocking I went on her door, and who should greet me? Nana, of course; it’s her house, ya big sillies “Hey there, Daffy”, she greeted me. I hope I’m as energetic as she is when I’m forty. I mean, she’s around seventy, but at the rate my manna energy drain is going - for what is life but an MMORPG - I’ll be lucky to be awake three hours a day when I’m forty. Maybe your thirties are just uniquely tiring, like adolescence. Or maybe I’m going through a belated growth spurt; five-foot-two-and-a-quarter, here I come! “Mary sent me,” I replied. Oops; didn’t mean to sound churlish (I’m not a churl; really). “I mean …” “She texted me. Come inside out of the chill, child.” “Thanks.” What did she call me? “So you have a case of the bored today?” “I guess. I mean, yeah, but probably not as bad as Mary thinks.” She thinks I bug her during the workday cuz I’m bored, but the truth is I do it because I’m bored, don’t have the same appreciation for the sanctity of work that I used to, and that I like her. I like like her, if I’m being honest, and you know me: I’m always honest (unless I have a good reason not to be … half a good reason will do in a pinch). “You just missed Julia,” she told me. “Your …” “Daughter in-law. She had a doctors appointment this morning and dropped Augie off.” “How old is he now?” “Two.” “Terrible twos, right?” Like I would actually know. The closest I come to knowing anything about junior humans is Suzy, and if I’m being honest (see above) I don’t think she’s as smart as a two-year-old. Just as cute though, and she’s got them all bested in the fuzziness factor. “He’s an angel. And so smart! Come see what he painted.” I dutifully followed Nana to the kitchen table; Grandma of The Year had set up finger painting for the little guy. “Just look at this,” she said. I did, and … See, the thing about honesty is one of the good reasons to not be honest is to spare someone’s feelings. It’s not Nana’s fault she can’t recognize crummy finger painting when it’s painted by her grandson’s fingers. It’s genetic. “Wow. He … did that by himself? Such fearless use of … brown.” What? I had to say something! I couldn’t just stand there silently as though struck by awe (there must be a word for that but I can’t think of it; really). “I keep every one of his paintings and drawings.” “All of them?” “Every single one. I’m sentimental. Be right back.” I couldn’t remember the last time I painted something. I remember discovering if you pop the watercolors out of the tray, you can use them like crayons. I can’t remember what if anything I discovered about whatever paint you use to finger paint. But I did remember painting the kitchen and the delightful sensory experience of rubbing paint between your fingers; not on purpose, of course, but I’m a messy painter. And the o so fun feeling of peeling it off. I wonder if animals that shed their skin like the feeling. Curiosity got the better of me, and it is for this reason alone, and not for any reasons having to do with a desire to finger paint, that Nana found me rubbing orange between my thumb and forefinger. And for the record, I didn’t startle or jump or blush or any of those things when she said, “You wanna paint a picture for Mary?” Only someone who gets caught at something would startle or jump or blush. In fact, I’ve never blushed in my life. Never had a reason to. What even is embarrassment, and from whence does the word cometh? It certainly has nothing whatsoever to do with being bare assed. I know because I checked, and anyway, I’ve never been bare assed. Really. No, you’re rambling! Big rambler mutter muffle murmur grumble. “I wouldn’t know what to paint,” I said because I’d forgotten the word ‘no.’ Understandable given the surfeit of syllables in that word. “Paint, um … a daffodil.” “I’m not blushing; you’re blushing.” “Huh?” Heccin hell, Daphne! Saying the quiet part out loud? Why not just tell her you’re embarrassed because any sign you enjoy finger painting could be taken to confirm something a certain someone has alleged and a certain someone seems to implicitly agree with and something you vehemently deny? “Okay,” I said because I forgot the word … I don’t remember the word I forgot. O the irony; the utter, utter irony. Almost positive that’s not an example of irony or almost positive that is an example of irony. One or the other for certain and definitely not both. And would you stop rambling already? I’m trying to relate this story. “Are you hungry,” Nana asked me. “I am if you are.” “You like tomato soup?” Here’s an interesting thing: despite having been called Daffodil most of my life, I didn’t know what one actually looked like. Re-reading that, I can see now that it isn’t interesting at all. Sorry, but they can’t all be gems, whatever the ‘they’ in that sentence is. I ended up spending several hours at Nana’s painting pictures of daffodils (after I googled what they look like) and eating grilled cheese and tomato soup. I don’t care for tomato soup on its own, but dunking a grilled cheese in there is one of life’s little pleasures, which, being one of life’s little pleasures myself, I appreciate. I never did an art appreciation class, but I’m self-taught in grilled cheese appreciation. Maybe that’s the hobby for me - grilled cheese appreciation. I could form a club, just me and the other homemakers getting together at least once a week to eat grilled cheese and gossip and stuff. ‘He’s fucking his secretary,’ one of club members would say. And being of a certain mind, I’d blurt out, ‘I’d be Mary’s secretary but says she prefers to fuck the interns, so I go this outfit and …’ And the vanilla heterosexuals would look at me all aghast and stuff and just wouldn’t understand, and they’d stage a club coup, and I’d lose my crown as The Grilled Cheesiest and resign in disgrace. Whole character arcs I’m writing in my head with Nana right there. “What are you thinking about,” Nana asked. O geez; tell the truth? That I invented a hobby and talked myself out of it because I’m insecure about my ability to maintain my position as The Grand Gruyère and can’t bear the thought of having to hand over my crown of cheese cubes and cheese stick scepter to Jenny the Heterosexual Homemaker with the cliched adulterer husband? That’s a heccin good reason to not tell the truth. “Nothing,” I fibbed. Fibs, ladies and perverts, are what we call lies when we wanna soft pedal our dishonesty. I’m referring, of course, to the royal we because I’m still The Grand Panjandrum of The Pecorino and Provolone Provost Marshall. Now that I think on it, the real reason I’d get thrown out of office is abrogating titles to myself and an embarrassing inability to stop making bad cheese jokes. My followers would start off enthusiastic but they’d grow tired of my bleu material and eventually be unable to camembert me anymore. “You’re thinking about something; you’re smiling. Are you thinking about how excited Mary will be for her pictures?” “Mary will be so excited, and then she’ll tease me for days.” “But you did so good, especially not having a brush. It’s not like you made hand turkeys.” I’m GREAT at hand turkeys, for the record. Just saying. “She’ll tease me cuz I went over to grandma’s house and finger painted. She’ll call me names, tell me I’m adorable, and ask if I got put down for a nap.” And I only need a nap cuz I ate too much cheese. We sapphics are suckers for cheese; lose all common sense and regularly overeat the stuff. No wonder so many hot girls have tummy troubles … Wonder how mad Mary would be if I broke the spending limit to buy a fondue pot? I should find out. The very worst that could happen is I get a spanking and eat a lot of melted cheese … that Mary could feed to me off a long skewer. A sore butt, cheese, and getting skewered by Mary … This is how trouble starts and I’m here for it. “You tell her I said to be nice to you or else,” Nana said. “But speaking of, need a nappy? Ha! A nap. I meant a nap … You know you turn almost the same color as your soup.” “Do not. And I’m doing the dishes.” If Nana had her way, I’d never lift a finger at her house except in the garden, but I’m the kind of person who stops by uninvited, paints flowers, makes silent cheese jokes, and does the dishes. Ya know, a good friend. That’s me. “Mary and I are going to a party this weekend,” I said by way of small talk. “We used to go to a party, like, every other month before the pandemic.” With friends. We went to a kinky play party through this fetlife group more like monthly. “What’s the occasion,” Nana asked while she cleaned up the art studio/kitchen table. “Just because. Our friend Brenna is hosting it.” “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a ‘just because’ party. Do young people still have those? We used to have them all the time when George and I were newlyweds. We all felt so grownup hosting dinner parties, but we just sort of stopped once we all had young kids.” “Um, I think we did more in our twenties, but same, I guess. Dinner parties never really were that big a thing for our generation though; more like appetizer and BYOB parties, and then people start having kids.” Of course, so many of our friends are in the kink scene that getting people together for a dinner party that’s just a dinner party was sort of rare in itself. Private play parties, well, Mary and I met at one, and the only thing private about it was the apartment door was closed. Good times. “Are you taking a dish,” Nana asked me. “Yeah, but I don’t know what. I’ve been watching cooking shows all week trying to get excited about something, but everything I get excited about is, ya know, work requiring skill.” “You’re a wonderful cook.” “At comfort food. For dinner party food, I bring the dip. Kinda wanna do something special.” “I’ll help.” “I can’t ask you to do that.” “I offered. You’d be doing me a favor; I get bored too some days.” And so we spent another hour talking about possible show-stopping dishes to prepare. I was less anxious about what I’d bring than about there being no such thing as a dinner party at which all the guests are lifestyle couples. I mean, there’d be dinner, but as happens pretty much at all Brenna’s parties, her twerp of a partner and Jane would head off into their little space and try to take me with them. And new people would be there. Not new to Mary and me; we know Ann and her partner. But new to the rest of the group. New people, new dynamic, anxious me. And Mary did gush over my paintings. One is on the fridge; the other she says she’s gonna have framed and wasted no time in texting a picture of it to our moms and posting it on Facebook. And only blushed a little, and I only felt flattered a whole bunch despite myself cuz Mary wasn’t (just) teasing me. She really, really was proud of my mediocre painting. Steve even called me a good artist; not nearly as good as being called a good girl, but I liked it just the same. And when I told her about the fate of my grilled cheese club, instead of laughing like a normal person, she nodded along like her little girl had come home from Grandma’s house and told her all about the imaginary world she invented, just beaming with pride at my creativity. I’m not weird; Mary is weird. True story.

The truth is I'm baby and these numbers are getting really BIG and confusing! Scene #198 "Mary," Daphne asked, "do you think Santa is gonna bring me stuff tomorrow?" "Of course Santa is going to be bring you stuff. Why would you even ask?" "Because I've been naughty. I'm on lists and stuff. Remember when you made me write "Daphne has been naughty" 500 times? He saw that; he always watching, judging. I think he even reads my diary ... It's very disconcerting." "You're such a silly Christmas goose." "Am not." "The silliest Christmasiest goosiest goose." "You're always saying that." "You're always being so silly," Mary said with the confidence only a dominant can have, as though she alone decides who's silly and who's goosey. But Daphne has never been the type of submissive to let such verbal transgressions against her character stand. "She says I'm silly; her, the same woman who took my pants away in case we do get carolers. 'They'll just see a little girl in her Chrstmas diaper,' she says. 'I'm sure they're use to it,' she says. Hmmph." "Ding dong." "What?" "Ding dong," Mary sing-songed, giving her Daffy's tummy a poke. "It's the carolers, and they wanna sing carols to little girls." "O drat; we don't know any of those." "I do; I do know a little girl!" Mary held Daphne firm in her left arm and tickled her tummy and underarms and sides and chinny-chin-chin, and Daphne squealed and squirmed and squeed, but she didn't move an inch out of Mary's embrace. Out of breath, Daphne decided to inform Mary, "I think we're both silly, but I think you're sillier." "Being a tickle monster is very serious business, Daphne Ann Taylor. You'll understand when you're not a little girl." "I'm not a little girl! Really." "Are." "Am not." "So are." "So am not!" "If you say so ... By the way, this year I'm giving the gift of humoring of you, and you just unwrapped it." "Marrrrry!!! Hmmph! Santa's watching you too, ya know." "Santa and I have an arrangement." "Does this have anything to do with Mrs. Claus waking me up this morning? She's sexy and looks like you." "Yeah? Anything else you noticed about her?" "She spanks hard and smells like candy canes ... And the fuzzy white panties she was wearing should make many non-Christmas appearances." "And for each spank, Santa took one strike off your naughty list." "Do you think he's bringing me any panties?" "Nope, but he'll bring you a fresh diaper and let you open it just as soon as you use this one." "Grumble mutter murmur mumble." "She says she's not a silly goose, and then she says stuff 'murmur mumble'. And what are all these little goose bumps doing on her slender little legs if you're not a silly goose? Are you cold?" "If I say yes, can I have my pants back? Asking for my friend who is me." "Nope; we're gonna hafta move closer to the fire and snuggle until it's time to put out cookies for Santa." "Cookies, a spanking, and all those things I did to Mrs. Claus and let her do to me ... For someone who allegedly just gives stuff away for free, he sure drives a heccin hard bargain ... Does he take donations, cuz I'll do all that stuff all the times." True story. "Heehee! You are such a silly goose!" "Am not." "Merry Christmas, Daffodil." "Merry Christmas, Mary ... Mary?" "Mhmm?" "Do you think there's any chance Mrs. Claus will sleep in our bed tonight?" "There's a chance." "And do you think I can be the big spoon so I can, uh, put my hands, um, on those fuzzy panties all night? Asking for my friend; a different one this time ... who is also me. Really." "What do I normally say when you wanna be the big spoon?" "That's I'm too little." "But on this Christmas, you can be the big spoon." "Awwww. You're so awesome and stuff." "How could I say no after you've been such a good girl?" "What did you call me?" "A good girl." "Squeeeeeee! Not to brag or nothin', but you think I'm a good girl." "I think you're my best girl." "And you're my Mary." _____________________ Scene #199 Heaven forfend someone complains or something that a cute redhead can’t just watch her show without some big, tall bully walking into the room like she owns the place even though both their names are on the deed and just order me to stand up. And gawd forbid anyone point out the cute redhead put the big bully in charge and likes it that way. And from no lips let the secret pass that I’m that redhead (but I am). Ooo, I thought, she looks determined, with her long strides and solid grip on the hairbrush. I bet this leads to great sex. Or something. Why? Why would I believe this? Because I didn’t do anything to deserve a spanking. Of this I was certain … mostly certain. Not that I keep a list of my misbehaviors (mostly cuz it could be used as evidence against me – if you’re gonna do crime, don’t keep records) but I have a steel trap (sieve) for a memory bank (piggy bank). And not that I always know if something I’ve done or am doing or am about to do is going to qualify in a certain someone’s eyes as a “poor choice” deserving “a consequence,” but I do know that we don’t have a rule against watching crummy dance competitions on TV, so I thought my butt was safe. Not safe-from-a-spanking but safe-from-a-real-spanking safe. She’s building anticipation, I thought when she yanked my yoga pants down like they were on fire. She’s setting the mood, I assumed when she wordlessly pulled me over her lap. She’s not giving me a warmup, I realized when she went straight to the brush and proceeded to paddle the stuffing out of me! “Mary ow Mary oof Mary! Ow ow ow ow o ow ow ow OW HEY WHAT THE YIPE AIEEEEE EEEEEEEEEE! What’s (sound bats use to communicate with each other) and (panicked chipmunks) and (mournful mooses)! (Sad wookie noises). (Steel rending). I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry ow ow ow ow ouch!” My working theory as to why I was being spanked like I stole a Michelangelo DaVinci commemorative plate is my friend Ralph dropped an F bomb and told Mary he heard it from me. “Maryyyyyyyy! What I do?” Mary replied as only Mary can: “(SPANK SMACK SWAT SPANK SPANK!)” And I replied as only I can: “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!” You think it’s just tears, but it snot too. “Are you going to bring them back,” Mary asked. “What are you talking eeeeeeeeee waaahhhhhhhhh!” “Are you going to bring them back?” Well, I heccin knew the correct answer to that question. “Yes!” “Are you going to take them ever again?” “No!” “Up you get.” And she manhandled me right to my feet. She had me by my elbow, and I was hobbled by my yoga pants (good old yoga pants; sweatpants woulda been hanging from the ceiling fan). “Show me where you hid them.” “But I (sob) don’t (choke) know (snurfle) what you’re talking about-ou-out.” And through my tear-blurred eyes I saw Mary do not quite a double take of recognition as if to say, O, she really didn’t do it. “… You … haven’t been hiding my panties?” “(Sad head shake).” And I’ll tell you this for free: seeing Mary embarrassed for once did NOT make up for how much my butt hurt. Not even close; that was a ninety-second ass burning. Butts aren’t like kidneys and lungs. You only get one! And mine was out of commission for at least half a week! But I handled it well. All grace and poise, that’s me: “My butt hur-ur-ur-ur-urts (snort snurfle sob snort)!” “O, Daffy,” she said like she loves me or something (she does, which is all the kinds of great), “I’m so sorry. I thought you’ve been hiding my underwear.” Now, recall that this woman – She-Tyrant! – has been hiding my underwear faster than I can replace them for, like, three years. All I have left as of this writing is five pairs from the Junior Miss department that I would’ve thought were too cutesy and embarrassing twenty years ago. And you might be thinking, huh, that ironic. But it’s not. It’s what we in the business call BULLSHIT. I did what submissives do when then they’ve been wronged: clung to the dominant who wronged me and demanded, in my regal, weepy-mouse-with-hurt-feelings voice, “Make it better.” Making it all better is quite the production. It begins with all the kisses. Forehead; hair; cheeks; neck: temple. Then there’s the forehead-to-forehead apology, a ritual movement in which the big mean bully lady leans forward so that her forehead touches that of Her Most Gracious and Forgiving Highness (who is me), and says, “I’m so sorry, Daffy.” The proper response, and I am nothing if not a proper lady – manners, decorum and that all crap even with my pants still around my ankles and my princess bits just hanging out there – is, “I’m very mad at you.” But rituals are more than words, of course (of course said the horse said the horse), so I followed the protocol of time immemorial and hugged her tighter. It is in this way, new generation of followers, that Mary was made to understand that (1) I wasn’t very mad at her, (B) but I was displeased, and (Purple) she owed me presents and comforts. “Let’s go wash your face.” “Take ‘em off first,” I commanded in a very commanding, not at all self-pitying tone. I mean, she pulled my pants down; the least she could do was take them the rest of the way off and not make me shuffle to the bathroom or, ya know, do it myself. Getting my face washed involved, for me, nothing more than being told, “Look up. Lemme see those rosy cheeks … There’s my pretty girl.” “Even with puffy, red eyes?” “Especially with puffy red eyes.” And I knew she wasn’t just saying that. “Can I get you anything,” she asked when I was freshly scrubbed. “Ice cream.” “Why don’t you go back to your show, and I’ll bring it to you? We have two kinds; which would you like?” “Neither. We need to order it … and cookies.” “You’re gonna make me spend $60 on DoorDash, aren’t you,” she said knowingly. “You bruised me,” is all I said in response to her back talk. That’s when she just handed me her phone and gave me a pat on the head. I mean, a bruised butt is virtually body art for me, but if I’m not going shopping for it, I at least like to deserve it. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said, so downstairs I went. Did you know a sound spanking can make walking hurt? Cuz I’ve known for a very long time. It’s a fact of commerce that value of ice cream and cookies delivered to one’s house is pegged to the price of gold. It’s also known that it’s much more delicious than whatever you have in the fridge even if sometimes it’s literally the exact same ice cream. I’m not that profligate, however. I at least ordered something we didn’t have at home, and though I was feeling very righteous and knew this was probably the only time doing so wouldn’t earn me a spanking, I fought off the temptation to order a cake. “Mary,” I called upstairs, “it hurts to sit on the couch and it’s your fault.” Just wanted to remind her. I was only just beginning to milk her guilt, which yes, ran a risk of overdoing it and getting spanked again, but I was still a good ways from crossing that line. “You don’t seem very sorry,” I said when she came downstairs. Big honkin’ step toward the line. “Do I ever make you say sorry twice,” she asked me and gave me The Look. “No, but my butt does a lot of the apologizing for me,” I sassed. Yep, straight up sassed. I’m very brave, I know; go forth and spread the word of my bravery and courageous deeds. And I wasn’t at all afraid when Mary’s eyes and lips narrowed like a gunwoman in a the big shootout scene in of those horse-and-dust movies, not when she strode right past me and got … “Mary, no, please?” … a diaper from the basket under the side table. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “but not very, very sorry. Wanna guess why?” “Cuz I probably did something to earn that spanking but got away with it?” “Yep, and because I know even though your butt hurts, you’re getting more turned on by the moment.” “ … You … shouldn’t talk about other people’s bodies. It’s very rude.” Very true, in this instance, but very … forgivably rude. She unfolded the diaper. “You’re thinking about how silly you looked turned over my knee getting your bare bottom paddled. And about how submissive you are, the way you didn’t even ask why you were getting spanked. You just let me pull you across my lap because you’re the subby little sub and I’m the big, cool domme, and you didn’t even try to stop me from taking your pants down like a naughty little girl who needed a long, hard, bare bottom spanking.” “I’m not a little girl.” “Until you cried. Until your cried like a well-spanked little girl getting all her guilt out through those tears to make room for the lesson she was being taught. How embarrassing to cry like that, too. Carrying on like a girl a third of your age.” She sat down next to me and spread the diaper, business side up, down the length of her thigh. She has … nice thighs. Surprisingly sturdy for such slender thighs; it’s, ya know, one of those pleasant surprises. “If sitting on the couch hurts, why don’t you hop up on my knee,” she said all casual like. “You can face whichever way you want.” She’s good. I will give her credit for that. I mean, you try saying that line all casual like. You can try, but you won’t succeed. I tried and started giggling a quarter of the way through. True story. “Hmmph,” I hmmphed as I climbed aboard. “Want help?” “I can do it myself … the first time.” “Such a quote unquote big girl grinding her sore bot-bot against my knee on her diapie.” “I’ll quote unquote you.” “You want me to feed you your ice cream while you ride my knee?” “… Yes.” “And when you’re all wore out, we’ll just tape that cummy diaper on you for bedtime. Just a well-spanked little girl in her cummy diaper. How … embarrassing.” “Marrrrrry!” Mary’s a goooooood helper. Later, when I was satisfied that I’d taught her thigh a lesson about stuff and things, I asked her, “What is it with you and panties?” “You mean why did I take it so seriously when I thought you were stealing my underwear? Because submissives should never do something like that, for starters, which is a conversation we’ve had before when you’ve appointed yourself Household Underpants Gnome. And because in this house, only dominants get to wear panties. Do you get to wear panties?” “Most of the time.” “Daffy, those aren’t panties. Remember what we call them?” “I don’t wanna say. I hate that word.” “I don’t know why my little girl hates using little girl words …” “Cuz I’m not a little girl.” “… but I think you should say it unless you want to lose them for a couple days. What do you get to wear when you’re not in your pull-ups and diapers?” “… Undies.” “That’s right! Cute undies with seahorses and unicorns and hearts and things on them.” “Hmmph.” “Open for more ice cream.” I only did because I like Mary, she told me to, and I like ice cream, in that order. “Suzie’s been taking your underwear,” I told her. “How do you know that?” “Well, Mary, see, underpants gnomes don’t really exist, and she’s the only other sentient creature in the house … Also, cuz she hides them under her bed.” “Daphne Ann!” “I’m not in trouble; you already spanked me,” I replied and parted my lips for more ice cream. Definitely not toeing the line across which resides a second spanking. Really.

Scene 197 As told to me, cuz I don’t remember any of it except the last bit … “Mary … Mary, wake up.” “Wuh.” So already, tables turned. ‘Wuh’ is kind of a Daffy response to being woken up. “Mary. C’mon, wake up.” “What time is it,” she claims to have asked. I’ll trust her on it; sounds like a Mary question. “You can’t die first,” she says I said. Sounds a little dramatic to me, and I’m not at all known for drama. I’m the opposite of a drama queen; I’m a … comedy … peasant. So … got that going for me. “Daffy, what are you …” “You can’t die first.” “Daff … What are you doing?” She says she asked me that cuz she thought it was weird that I would wake up, issue a directive on the order of our deaths, and roll back over to go back to sleep. “Daffy … Daffy.” “Shhh.” She says I shushed her. I would never shush her cuz I value my butt. “Are you awake?” “Don’t die first.” “Daff … Daffy?” “I already told you.” “You’re having a night terror.” That’s a thing I have a couple times a year. Mary is very good about them, especially since sometimes I scare the holy heccin crappin crud out of her with my unconscious ramblings and declarations. “And,” she says she said to me and I’m highly skeptical it’s even a thing, “your diaper is soaked.” According to Miss Mary I-take-such-good-care-of-you, she got off the bed and sauntered across the room - the sauntering part is me filling in the detail and if you saw the sexy tee shirt she went to sleep in and the way her butt kinda peeks out the bottom, you’d understand - to the closet and returned with a dry diaper. “You’ll feel better when you’re dry again.” I’ve been informed by parties described as dubious that I was basically totally back to sleep by that point but that said party had no trouble manipulating my allegedly “cute little butt” out of the diaper she put me to bed in and into the new diaper she put me back to bed in. And not that I was awake for it, but I disagree with the word “soaked.” Not a thing that happened, but if it did - which is a big if, possibly the biggest and iffiest if ever - it’s only cuz Miss Mary Okay-I-take-mostly-good-care-of-you didn’t change the diaper she put on me at movie time before we went to bed. “You’re not listening,” I’m supposed to have said. “And you’re not even awake.” “You’re always saying that.” “Where’s your mute button,” she said and I have zero trouble believing her. That’s her pet name for the pacifier she used to keep on my nightstand but stopped fighting me on every time I moved it to in my nightstand. So … I showed her with that. Yep; that’s a thing I did. “There,” she says she said after patting my butt, tugging up my pajama bottoms, and putting that paci between my lips. Now, as to the part I do remember … “Good morning,” I said to Mary. It’s always a good morning waking up with her wrapped around me like I might escape if she loosed her grip. Big secret: I don’t even try to escape; I like it here. “Good morning; where’s your mute button?” “What the heck kind of greeting is that?!?”

If you follow me on twitter or patreon, you know i had another major surgery this week. I feel pretty bad. i wanna write during my recovery, but first i gotta stop feeling so blech.

Scene #196 Christmas is more fun that all the times which aren’t Christmas. Holiday stress is a thing, but so are holiday cookies. The universe balances, and Christmas wins. I was explaining this to Mary at the mall as we walked past all the holiday-decorated storefronts and Santa. And Mary … The thing you hafta understand about Mary is she never sees the absence of a graceful segue as a reason to not do what she was gonna do anyway. I mean, I knew what she was gonna do. I just thought maybe for once she’d try to put a little art into her craft. I should’ve known from her weak “you broke the toy” pivot that she wasn’t feeling so patient. “Daphne, enough,” she said to me as we walked past Santa Land, “you’ll just have ti o wait and see if Santa brings it this year.” Caught me off guard a little. Sort of wanted to stop a passerby and ask if they had any idea what my wife was talking about. I mean, wives, amiright? Always saying crazy stuff. I should know cuz I am one. I’m also a little woman in literal and figurative senses, and I’m cool with that. “O, you’re doing the thing,” I said to Mary. “You can’t have a present every time you ask for it.” I literally had not asked for anything. “Uh-huh. I agree with you.” “Keep back talking and I’ll tell Santa not to bring it.” O, fudge muffins. Fine. “Back. Back back back back back back back. Now what’re ya gonna do, ya big, tall bully?” “You’re about to find out, little girl.” She wasn’t smiling, but she was smiling on the inside. So bright and wide. On the outside, like, wow - she was one fed up Mary. You’d have thought I’d been a total brat all day, knocking over display racks, smarting off at sales clerks, pickpocketing, bah humbugging, and doing crime. And the Oscar goes to Mary, the woman who wasn’t being nearly as discreet as she could’ve been. See, I don’t need to act to lend some realism to our little sexcapades; Mary does the acting, and I just hafta keep up. Literally keep up, like when she takes me by the arm at the mall and speed walks like a disciplinarian who is not gonna wait until we get home. Past Santa Land. Pasta the Hickory Farms holiday kiosk. Past the play area full of screaming kids and haggard parents. Past the seasonal holiday worker behind the counter in the junior miss department of Nordstrom. I think we’ve actually bought stuff from there fewer than five times, but we always like to browse in there. It’s only a happy coincidence (that was sarcastic, just fyi) that the dressing rooms in Nordstrom have a lot fewer people in them than other stores’. “Marrrry, leggo. People can see.” Fortunately, just cuz people can see doesn’t mean they’re watching, but it’s not so easy to tell in the moment. It’s not so easy to tell in the moment! Hmmph! “You should’ve thought of that before you sassed me. You are in so much trouble now, young lady.” “Quieter,” I hissed. “If you think we’re waiting until we get home, you are sorely mistaken. You’re going over my knee, and then we’re going to finish our shopping trip, and if you complain about you sore bottom just once, your pants are coming down again.” “(Gulp).” I trotted along beside the lanky Amazonian Queen of Amazonia I married with a ball of dread in my belly, a scarlet blush on my cheeks, and eyes wide and hyper alert to all the people seeing me marched to my buttsecution. I kept telling myself it was wrong. It was wrong, which made it even more titillating, which was also wrong. It fit squarely into the definition of Type 2 fun: no fun when it’s happening, so much fun to think back on. “But Mary,” I whispered, and I don’t even know where I was going with that. “Don’t you ‘but Mary’ me. We’re going to have along talk after, but right now I don’t want to hear it until your bottom has been well and truly spanked. I started to turn to go into the dressing room in the Little Miss department. I’d been spanked in there three times before, two of which I want to forget. But that’s a lot better than a certain highway rest stop … so I got that going for me. Dammit… “Not this time,” Mary said and tugged me along. We headed up the escalator; at least I got to catch up to Big Mrs. My Legs Are Longer Than Yours (Amazon royalty has the weirdest naming conventions). “Where we going?” “Right over there.” A dressing room mat the back of the store, the farthest from the entrance. An empty clothes rack was parked in front of it. “Mary, I think that’s closed.” “It is.” Scroofit! She planned this! She made arrangements! How!?! Who is she conspiring with? Why did I marry a deciduous conspiring conspirator who conspired with her coconspirators? She stopped shirt right at the entrance. I think she glanced around first, But I was too busy panic imagining what she was gonna do to me that she couldn’t do in a dressing room with people in it, cuz she’s done stuff to me in dressing rooms before! “We are going to go into the dressing room, I am going to spank your bare bottom, and you are going to be the best behaved girl at the mall. Do you understand?” “Keep your voice down.” “We’ll see who’s keeping her voice down in a minute. In you go, little girl.” She stepped around the rack towing me behind her all the way down to the last dressing room. She steered me in and smacked my butt to propel me forward cuz for some reasons we’ll never know I was hesitant for something? And emotional. Hesitant and emotional. “(Sniffle).” They were just nerves. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘She sure has got some nerve.’ “Save some of those tears, Daphne Ann. You’re gonna need them.” “But I didn’t do anything.” “O yeah? What about that tantrum you threw in the home goods section?” “All I said was that toaster oven looks like it would toast more evenly than ours.” “And I am sick and tired you badmouthing how evenly our toast is. Little girls in Antarctica would be thrilled to have toast that’s overdone on one side.” I give Mary all the credit for saying that without laughing. Me? I also didn’t laugh. Um, really. SMACK! “Ow! Marrrry!” Stupid thigh spanks! Even through jeans they hurt. That’ll get anyone into the right headspace. Hmmph! “Still think it’s funny?” “No.” “Can’t believe I hafta take your pants down in a department store to spank you butt like you’re a … And when did your wet your pull-up?” “Marrrry!” “If being in a wet pull-up embarrasses you, then maybe you should stop peeing your pants, little girl.” “That’s not even what happened!” Mary’s ya-wanna-run-that-nonsense-by-me-one-more-time face. “I, um … uh … peed?” “And where did you pee? Did you pee in the potty or did you pee in your pants?” “You made me! You always make me! You won’t let me take them off until I …” SMACK! “Ouch! Urgh!” “It’s not my fault you can’t hold it indefinitely.” She has a point there. Yeah, a stupid one. “That’s just stupid.” No, what was stupid was saying how stupid that was. And until that day, I thought only people in cartoons made whooshing sounds, like the WHOOOSH my flailing body made as Mary pulled me across her knee like … like something that goes really fast … and stuff. Spank! “Ow!” Spank! “OW!” Spank spank spank! “Nurner furdget!” “Don’t you feel embarrassed getting turned over my knee in public and getting paddled on your wet pull-up?” “Yes!” “I have a solution for that!” So here’s a thing I thought while she spanking my ass Christmas red: it’s equally embarrassing to get your bare bottom spanked with your wet pull-up yanked down around your thighs. Here’s another thought I thinked: all those times I thought it was it was just the worst getting bent over and paddled in a dressing room had nothing on getting put over Mary’s knee and paddled. Bent over spankings come with a set number of swats in mind, usually; over the knee is more like ‘when I think you’re a well spanked, sorry little girl.’ I’ve never believed there any correlation between how sorry a person is and how hard they’re crying. I mean, I was crying pretty hard and I wasn’t sorry at all, mainly cuz I didn’t do anything … But just in case, no more aspersions would I cast against our toaster. It’s a good toaster, and it’s doing the best it can; it is enough … even if it burns the edges. Hmmph. Meanwhile, Mary’s up there just going to town. “…your little (SPANK CRACK WACK) Until you can’t (SPANK SPANK SPANK SMACK) Santa is watching (SPANK SMACK SMACK SMACK SPANK) you want him to see you like (CRACK SPLAT SPLAT SMACK) red (SPANK SPANK FWAP SPLAT) for a week! Do you understand me, little girl?” “YESSSSSSSSSS! I pro-om-om-mise!” “Then c’mere and cry it all out.” Offer fucking accepted! Right into Mary’s shirt, one of the best places ever to cry … Actually, nope; it’s THE best. Not that I blubbed or wept or besnotted her shirt, but yes, those are things I did. “Are you ready to go back to shopping?” “Mhmm.” “Are you gonna behave yourself?” “Mhmm.” “Cuz what will happen if you don’t.” “I’ll get another spanking.” “And the next one won’t be in a closed dressing room. Speaking of which, we gotta get you diapered and out of here fast.” “Do I gotta wear a diaper?” “I didn’t bring you any dry pull-ups. Besides, new rule: if you wet your pull-up, it’s back to diapers for the rest of the day.” “But that means every time I wear a pull-up, I’ll have to wear a diaper too!” “If you wanna get it over with faster, you can wear them both at the same time.” “Snurnle!” “What?” “I said ‘not fair.’” “… Okay. I think, by the way, I haven’t been spanking you enough. Your bottom is so bruised. Stand up; let’s see if these jeans fit over this diaper.” “They had better.” “Just barely,” Mary tittered at my expense. She’s always tittering. Hmmph. “Let’s go say thank you to the nice lady.” “What lady?” “The one I paid to close this dressing room for ten minutes.” “How far in advance did you plan this?” “A week. Bring your pull-up … To throw away, silly. Don’t give me that face.” And see, the thing is, I have certain needs that just suck all the kinds of ways to fulfill; dammit. “When we get home, can I get the rest of my spanking?” “That wasn’t all of your spanking,” Mary asked me, surprised and not surprised. “Well, the thing is, see, I have a confession to make. I’ve been bullying our microwave on social media.” And holy heck! You’d have thought I called our air fryer a glorified convection oven. _____________________ Merry Christmas, Everyone! (Art by Cool Hooves)

I think Daffy appreciates the help. She never would've done it on her own, but not having a headset means she can't hear mean people saying mean things, and she knows that's a good thing.

Merry Christmas, Diaperboy! ?

Scene #195 “Eat a bag of furnig moferin azzlestangerang and put it right up you qweringergun canal! I hope you get a mouth full of jaggerkuneriin lackspazzo fuuner mogger rurgin and choke on it! You mother can huuf zeenerspoogen kunter huuzerfloffereningenagain and fuck! Fuck fuck fuck you! In your fuckin’ ass!” Apparently, when I get really upset, I speak in a combination of biblical tongues and pseudo-Dutch. Who knew? Not me; that’s not who. “Daffy!” “Go kilernifoofen yourself first, assmuncherstoofer!” “Daphne!” “And swallow it!” “Dahpne Ann!” Geez! What took her so long!?! Headset off, controller dropped on the floor. Stumble right over my (gaming) blanket and into Mary’s arms, and “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!” “What is going on here?!?” “Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” Good thing one of us was composed and together and assembled and with it and under control cuz Mary was, um, so out of sorts. Um … really. “Shhhhhhh. Shhhhh shhh shhh,” she cooed at me. “Take a deep breath. C’mon.” “(Sniffle snurfle snorf snurfffffff snurfle!)” And who took off her own pants for her spanking? Me; that’s who. “Daffy, what are you doing?” “I’m sorr-rrr-rrr-ryyy.” “Daff,” said this Mary person who was so totally freaked out. “Stop that.” “But I’m in trou-uhh-uhh-uhh-ble,” I moaned and continued to disrobe. “Stop … Stop! Daffy! Look at me!” O; hey Mary. When did you get here? “Stop taking your pants down,” she said and pulled them right back up. “What happened?” “I was playing my game and one of them said it again and I just lost it and went totally off and I didn’t mean to say those words and I’m sorr-rrr-rrr-rrr-yyy.” “Shhhhh. Calm down.” Right into the bathroom she steered me and over to the sink. Just friggin great. A mouth soaping – which I totally deserved, by the by (whatever that means) – but I at least earned it good and proper. “Take a deep breath,” the Mary person told me. She’s kinda bossy? And I told her so: “Hhh-hhh-hhh-hhh-waaaaaahhhhhhh!” What? The sobbing was less unpleasant than the diaphragm cramps. “O my goodness,” she chuckled. “Someone is having big feelings!” Yeah – ME! “Take those deep breaths for me now. Like this.” O-okay. Heeee…hoooo…heeee…hoooo. “(Snurfle snurf).” “That’s it. Just like that.” She wet a washcloth and laid it across the back of my neck. O, for motherstuffin goodnesserfin; I needed that. “That’s my good girl.” Really? I’m a good girl? Even though I called someone (who’s probably under thirteen) a jackfooted bandersnatch who snooferoofens their father’s perinackerwadget? “Tell me what happened. Take your time and deep breaths.” “I was playing …” “Yeah …” “And I was winning …” “Yeah …” “And I messed up …” “Mhmm …” “And someone said I should (words I won’t say).” Ooo – Mary’s making her outside-I’m-calm-but-inside-I’d-murder-for-you-with-murdering face. “I’m sorry people can’t just be nice to you. Look up for me.” I did as I was told cuz Mary is good at this stuff, and she took the washcloth and wiped the tears away from my face. “There’s my pretty girl. Let’s wash your face.” And she soaped up the washcloth and wiped away the tears again and did such a good job and stuff. “Here,” she said and held the washcloth to my nose. “Honk.” I don’t, for the record, honk cuz I’m neither a duckling nor a gosling. “(Honnnnnnkkkkkk honk honk snurf honkkk sniffsniff)!” “Starting to feel better?” “I’m getting my period.” She chuckled at that. “I know, baby.” What? Like I become unhinged or something when I’m in the throes of PMS? Cuz that’s not true. I become … dishinged. And only some of the times. Once a quarter, maybe. “So I’m not getting a spanking for saying those words?” “No, I’m not giving you a spanking.” “Or my mouth washed out?” “No, but I’m taking your gaming headset and putting it in the garbage disposal.” “That’s kinda dramatic.” Ooo – Mary’s I’m-sorrry-which-of-us-do-you-think-is-being-dramatic-right-now face. But like she even really means that. “I want you to go upstairs and pick out some pajamas for a nap, okay?” “Okay.” “And I’ll come tuck you in.” I would’ve gone upstairs thinking people suck, but Mary is a people and she’s just the best and stuff and didn’t even spank me for saying those words like she said she would that time she lost her shit at the gamer bullies who said the exact same thing. Christmas jammies, or … other Christmas jammies? RrrrrrrrrrrrkrrrrkrackggggraffffffrafffraffffckrckkkkkkkaaaaaAAACCKrrrrrrr!!!! O my god, she really did it! “Daffy?” “Um, yeah?” “Do you wanna take a nap, or do you wanna go to the hardware store with me? We need a new garbage disposal.” Awwwwwww! She even breaks household appliances for me! Sigh …

Scene #194 Splish-splash I was takin’ a bath cuz that’s now part of our holiday traditions. Me in the tub, bottle of sparkling wine, pink bubble bath, getting ready to roar across the house at whoever was detaining my Mary. I says to Mary, I says, “Will we have a repeat of last year when you got stuck on the phone and were twenty minutes late to our date? Cuz I’ll get on the other extension and really let ‘em have what for.” And she says to me, she says, “It’s so cute when you talk like it’s still 2004.” “Well, you could conference me in … or just put it on speakerphone.” But did she? No. And was she late? Yes. And did I react in a reasonable, mature manner? Well, I’ll tell you. First, I imagined how boring it would be to react in a reasonable, mature manner. Second, I imagined the consequences should I choose to react in a reasonable, immature manner, which seemed like fun. Thenly, I imagined the consequences of reacting in an unreasonable, immature manner. That seemed like the most fun. Thusly, I continued imagining it. I’m a very good imaginationist (imaginationeuse?) I wrote, produced, directed, edited, and co-starred in a movie in my head, complete with sound effects and physical effects and special effects that were so real, it’s as though I felt and heard and also felt the events of the scene. And did I mention felt? So many different feels and one feel felt many times on the way to a great big feel. ‘How dare you talk to my boss like that,’ I wrote for Mary to say. ‘I promised her I would spank your bottom good and hard.’ I didn’t write any lines of my own cuz I’m a great improviser (improvisationeuse?), and I did an especially damn fine job of it. ‘You’re lucky my boss has a little girl of her own and understands what it’s like,’ Mary said as she took my pants down. ‘By the way, you have a play date with her next week, and you’d better make good choices or you’ll both get a sound spanking from the two of us. Imagine how embarrassing it will be standing there naked watching your little redhead friend get spanked knowing she’ll be watching you get it too in just a moment. I bet you’d be crying before you even went over her knee.’ And cuz I’m not just the co-star but also the screenwriter and casting director, I made a hasty edit. It turns out her boss’s little girl is my long lost identical twin, which is a kink I didn’t know I had and it’s very possible - in actuality, it’s a real fact proven by science and stuff - that given two red-headed identical twins, one will be a little girl and the other will not be. Of course, I’m the one who’s not. I’m also the one who isn’t fictional, so I’m really coming out ahead of my imaginary identical twin but I feel bad about it because we have one of those strong connections only identical twins can have. This is getting so meta … “Daffy Dewdrop,” my smooth and shapely wife sang out from down the hallway, “guess what?” Hmmm. I know this one! “Chicken butt?” If you know it, why did you say it like a question? … No, you shut up. “What?” “Chicken thigh?” That’s not how it goes … No, YOU shut up. And there she was standing in the bathroom door, leaning against the frame, arm extended above her head looking slovenly and stuff cuz when she got out of bed that morning she said, and I quote (and you can rely upon me to be faithful and accurate about the quoting - really), ‘Screw it. I’m not getting on camera today.’ I know! Can you believe she said that? “You weren’t doing the chicken joke,” I asked. She’s looking at you like you’re crazy … again. Her eyes darted side to side like there might be a hidden camera or audience for whose entertainment this exchange was meant. She decided all on her lonesome to just pretend like the exchange never happened (very important skill in our dynamic, not to be used lightly but when needed, don’t hesitate to pretend happenings never happened). “Guess what?” “Chicken butt.” There - said it with a quiet authority that time. “Heeheeheehee!” Zing!!! I zinged her good. “It’s Christmas time!” O good; she ignored it again before it got even more awkward. “It’s the best part of Christmas time,” I said. I’m a sucker for the very first day of Christmas vacation. “How do you feel?” She started getting undressed, so I kinda had to do the stripper music (it’s not in our marriage contract, but it’s just understood that I will sometimes do that when she gets undressed and she will just have to tolerate it every time). “Buhbah! Buhbah Buhbah buhbah buhbah BUHBAH! Chicks-chi-bow!” Alas, I don’t know how to spell the other sounds. “Come get in the tub already.” “Hold your seahorses. You want me to get my panties all wet?” “You like it when it’s me so much, maybe I’d like it to.” “I frown on little girls wetting their panties, Daff. That’s what your diapers are for. But if you want to try me peeing on you …” “I’m good … And they’re your diapers.” And then - get this! - she was naked. Like, totally. The wedding industry should really talk up seeing your spouse naked in their sales materials. It’s like, look at her! She’s pretty and all mine and stuff. Y’all can share if you want to, but I’m jealously bogarting mine (not that I ever get jealous). And she slipped right into the water like a sexy sea otter. Ha! Rhyming … Anyhoo … “Ooo, that feels so good,” she sighed. “Do you think Santa will bring the extra big tub we asked for last year?” “I don’t know. Depends on what Santa’s bonus was this year.” Since becoming boss two years ago, Santa’s annual bonus is now bigger than my salary was before I quit working; granted, that’s not saying much but also, yeah it is. I should’ve gone into the elf industry like Mary. “Well,” she started to say, “let’s just … How much champagne did you drink?” “Like, ever? Hard to know exactly. See, memory is a …” “No wonder you’re being so silly,” she said as she lifted the bottle to see how much I had. “Two whole glasses? Daphne Ann! Tut tut tut.” “A glass and a half … I’m not a lightweight. I just happen to be small and light of weight and unaccustomed to sparkling wine.” “Silly goose.” She poured herself a flute. We should all drink out of things called flutes more often; makes it sound like we’re perpetually feasting in a magical kingdom ruled by a stern yet benevolent brunette goddess-queen who doesn’t get on camera for last-workday-of-the-year zoom calls. “My … You’ve been masturbating! Daffy! What an afternoon you’re having all on your own in here.” And she chuckled at my expense. “W-was … Nub-huh!” “I can see your spot.” “No you can’t!” And I threw bubbles at her. Goddess-queen pretending she can see through bubbles … “On your collarbone, doofus.” “O … That one.” For as long as ever, when I’ve been feeling certain feelings, I get this little red spot on my collarbone. Mary thinks it’s the ultimate arbiter of truth, whereas I think it’s a tattletale snitch that tells tales and doesn’t know the difference between the truth and a lie. It’s always libeling me with its mistaken ideas about what I do and don’t like. But just this once, it told the truth. “Well, you were running late. And I prefer to call it ‘jilling off.’ You’re so crass.” “Crass by using the actual words for things?” “Yeah.” “Vulva.” “Marrry! I have …” “Delicate little ears, I know.” Benevolent eye-rolling goddess-queen who looks so friggin hot sipping champagne naked in the bathtub … Sometimes I think I must’ve won her in a contest. “Are you playing footsie with me,” I asked all coquettishly and stuff. I’m a Christmas coquette. I may even buy red stockings just to give Mary an eyeful as I slowly roll them up my thighs with care (it’s a coquette thing; you wouldn’t understand). “Just making room for myself,” she said like she’s any good at playing hard-to-get except sometimes she kinda is cuz she likes to watch me get all hot and bothered and thirsty and pleading. Mary and her orgasm denial kink … But I can honestly say I’ve always won that game, mostly cuz she eventually lets me win, but sometimes I take the bull by the horns and just run full steam for the goal posts dragging poor Mary behind me as she clings to my ankle. True story. “What are you smiling about,” she asked me. “How we have almost three full weeks to do stuff together.” “What kind of stuff?” “I thought first I’d be super clingy and not give you a moment’s peace. Basically be so close to you at all the times so that we don’t even make separate shadows anymore.” Mary’s making her squiggly I-love-Daffy-so-much face. Heehee! “My dog growing up used to do that. He’d put his face right on your hip and follow me all day almost never not in physical contact. Maybe I should get you a collar and leash after all.” “But I’m so super obedient I don’t even need a leash. I’m an off-leash puppy … Also, I’m not a puppy.” “So you’re not a puppy.” “Nope.” “And you’re not a little girl.” “Nope.” “So what are you?” “I dunno.” There I go being a coy coquette again. Who’s playing footsie now? Me. That’s who. “Let’s see,” Mary said, putting her finger on her chin as if she had to think hard about it. She tries to play coy, but I don’t think that’s a thing dommes can do. “You’re clingy.” “Mhmm, but in a good way.” Not everyone can pull that off. True story. “And you’re obedient.” “I do my best.” I always obey (when I want to, which totally counts. Really). “And you’re a girl.” “Woman, but go on.” “And if one were to describe your behavior …” “And general demeanor and personality and stuff.” “How might one describe it?” She wasn’t fooling me. She wasn’t talking about ‘one.’ She was talking about herself, about Mary, about my Mary. But I humored her. “‘One’ might call me good.” “A good Daphne?” “Yeah …” And I waited. I knew what she was leading up to. And I waited. And I waited while she took a sip of her champagne. And I waited while she suppressed a smile … And waited. “Say it.” “Say what?” “You know what?” “You’re a good Daphne.” “Marrry - say it.” “I just did.” Rumormongers may claim I splashed her, but I didn’t. Really. “Daphne Ann, what have I told you about splashing in the tub?” “Not to do it.” “Do I need to spank you bottom to remind you?” “That’s what you did last time, and I guess it didn’t work. Think you need a new strategy.” “That is not the kind of thing a good Daphne says.” “I’ll stop being a brat when you say it. I know you wanna say it; I can see it in your eyes.” Omuhgawd, Mary’s eyes. Speaking of beautiful deep pools I could submerge in forever … Not that anyone was speaking of those until just now. “Promise,” she asked me like I’ve ever in my life not kept a promise to behave forever and always. “Cross my heart. “You’re not only a good Daphne; you’re a good girl.” Squeeeeee! She said it she said it she said it cuz she thinks it! Not to brag or nothin’, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl, and she’s in charge so it’s official. Validation! Certification! Credentialed and bonafide and stuff and all the things! Eeeeee! “I said no splashing!” “Sorry! Sorry. Excited splashing. Lost myself in the moment.” Splash-splash-splash! “Daphne!” “Sorry!” “What was that one for?” “Just struck me again that it’s Christmas time and I get to spend it with you.” Squeeeeee! My feet just wanted to dance I was so excited. Splashing was unintentional and involuntary and doesn’t count against any recent promises cuz reasons. Mhmm - science and reasons. “You’re lucky you’re such a good girl, or I’d yank you out of this tub, turn you over my knee and spank your little wet bottom red.” “My biggest objection to that is I’d be cold.” “Someone just bought themselves a bedtime spanking.” “Questions: is it a good girl spanking, and can I use my two-for-one coupon?” “You’ll just have to wait and find out.” “That means yes and yes. I broke your code a long time ago.” She sighed and started playing footsie with me again. Is it still footsie if her foot is snaking it’s way up and down my thigh under the bubbles? Whatever that game is, she sighed and started playing it again. I swear on all my Christmas presents that she likes me to the moon and back. I’m not exaggerating; I never exaggerate; not once, not ever. Really. “A long time ago,” she said all wistful and stuff. “How long have we been together?” She knows the answer; she just wanted to reminisce together. Sigh … “Physically? Eight years.” “Is there some way other than physically?” “We’ve been together our whole lives. We just didn’t know each other yet. I’ve had a Mary-shaped place right in my heart just waiting for you.” Mary made her I’m-not-gonna-cry face and swallowed hard. She got all misty-eyed. “I’ve just decided we’re redoing this bathroom.” “Um, okay … semi-random response.” Like, hey, I’m pouring my heart out here. “Because the tub is too small for me to be on the same side so I can hold you so close right now.” O; I get it now. I gotta say, this whole being together with your soulmate thing is one of the few things that lives up to the hype. “Awww. You love me so much you’ll hire plumbers. Is it okay if I search for a really butch lesbian plumber?” “Whatever makes you happy.” Comfortable silences with your soulmate are just so … perfect. But they must come to an end some time, so I asked, “What would you think if I grew my hair out again?” “To impress the butch plumber? I’d be very upset.” “And she calls me a silly goose,” I muttered. “You know I love it when you grow your hair out. Remember last time?” During the pandemic when I couldn’t get a haircut, my hair went past my shoulders. Mary really likes my hair that way, I think mostly because she love-love-loves sitting me down between her legs and combing my hair every night before bed. And braiding my hair; holy heccin Christmas fudge does she love braiding my hair. She’s so good at it too; I don’t understand how, but I take her at her word that the secret to braiding my hair so well is pausing every so often to nibble my earlobes and make soft little kisses on my neck and breathe in my scent. I’m sure she’s right; she’s Mary, and Mary knows so many things. As for me, I don’t like having to take care of my hair when it’s long, but I’m happy to pass the job off to Mary. Ear nibbles never get old; that’s just a fact of science and stuff (while the act of ear nibbling is among the high arts, and Mary is a master). “This is gonna be such a good Christmas … ya wanna get outta the tub?” “I just barely got in.” “Yeah, but the tub isn’t big enough, and I wanna start the clinging thing right now. We’ll put on our pajamas, order food, and writhe around in each others’ arms like two kittens.” “Says she isn’t into kitten play,” Mary muttered. “I’m into Mary and Daphne play.” “Awww. Am I your fetish?” “She says like she didn’t already know that,” I muttered. “She muttered like I wouldn’t understand what she said,” Mary muttered. “I said it the way I did specifically cuz I knew she’d hear what I said just fine,” I muttered. … “It’s so cool we can still be silly after all these years.” “I picked you cuz you’re the silliest goosiest.” “You picked me cuz lots of reasons. All the reasons, in fact. I was there; I remember.” “Because you’re such a good girl.” She said it twice during the same bath! Squeeee! “This is gonna be the best Christmas!” “No splashing!” “I can’t help it! Squeeeeeeee!” “Did you actually just say ‘squee’?’ “I can’t help that either. All the feelings at once. I know it’s silly cuz we’re together all the time, but it’s two-and-a half weeks that I don’t hafta share you with work; it’s like I missed you or something, and now you’re home.” Ooo; Mary’s making her I-will-do-anything-for-Daphne-up-to-and-including-time-travel face. “We should get out of the tub before we both start splashing and crying.” “I’m not crying.” “I’m a gonna squeeze you so tight,” she said with a sniffle, “you’re gonna make that squeaky sound you sometimes make.” Oooo. I love being her squeak toy at all the times and in all the ways. Gonna be such an awesome Christmas! Squeeeeeee!

Scene #193 I had a question, so I asked Mary. She knows things. I mean, I know more things, but I don’t know all the things. When in doubt, I ask Mary. So I says to Mary, “Mary,” I says, “are we being old right now?” She peered over her tablet to look down at me cuz we were sharing a big soft chair at a cafe. “If we are, it’s in a good way. Why?” “Sitting in a café on a Sunday afternoon with your spouse reading separate books feels suspiciously like something old people do.” “Separate books? Is it less old if I read to you?” “Could go either way, I think.” She put her book down and put rested her chin on my shoulder. Gotta say, we were having a great time being old if that’s we were doing. Rainy outside, kinda cold; big, soft chair next to the café’s fireplace; LGBTQ-friendly café; tea for Mary; hot chocolate for me cuz I’m so grown up I don’t care if asking for whipped cream and sprinkles on it make me seem like a thing Mary calls me all the time that isn’t even accurate; periodic cookies. “What if,” Mary said with her good mischief smile on her so, so pretty face (I love her!), “we stopped reading and talked instead.” She put her book down and crossed her arms over my middle, pulling me closer (which was super impressive considering I was already almost all the way in her lap. “You have a very full tummy,” she said while patting my tummy. “Who’s got a full tumtum?” I did a legit pillsbury doughboy “Heehee! It’s not full.” “It’s full of cookies.” “Only two.” “But they’re big bakery cookies, and you’re so tiny.” “I make up for it with a big personality.” Also, it was three. I wolfed one down while she was in the restroom, and I’m not sorry. “Maybe we need to ration your cookies so you pace yourself. The baking season is long.” “I’m already not eating peanut butter Christmas trees on weekdays, which – I might have already mentioned this – is a major imposition. I do it because I love you.” “And because I told you.” “I let you tell me cuz I love you.” Mary sighed. She loves that I love her. She crossed her arms over me, her hands on my sides. I yawned, the lack of refined sugar for the last twenty minutes and my Mary holding me and the hot cocoa and her being all warm and stuff was making me sleepy. “The feminine urge to tickle your belly to you’re wide awake.” “I can’t take you anywhere but you wanna make a scene,” I teased her. Teased her with the truth, honesty being one of my superlative qualities. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘She’s honest to a fault sometimes.’ You have to be super honest to be honest to a fault, though I wouldn’t say ‘fault’ cuz I don’t have any of those. For instance, being conceited is a fault, and I’m not ever that. Really. “What is it you always say, Daff? You ‘have your reasons’ for the things you do?” “Mhmm. Good reasons. Don’t get me wrong, though; your reasons are great and stuff almost all the times.” “All the time.” “That’s what I said – all the times.” “Heehee! For such a playful little girl …” “I’m not a little girl.” Really. I didn’t even get carded when I bought that third cookie. “For such a playful little girl, you’ve been awfully quiet when I’ve asked you what you want for Christmas.” I have a theory. When you’re a kid, you can’t get anything yourself, hence everything you want is basically a present. If you see something you want, you are basically thinking “Present!” Contrast this with adulthood. Everything you want is something you have to get yourself. Therefore, when you see something you want, you almost never think present. It takes a conscious effort to remember that some things can be presents and sometimes you need to not buy something you otherwise would just so someone else can make it a present. Well, I forgot to do that this year. “I want … new cookie sheets.” “That’s not a present,” she told me, “that’s just kitchenware.” “But I like kitchenware. I wanna Martha Stewart the heck out of our home next year.” “You say that now …” Fair point. Sounds like a lot of work. “I wanna bake a lot next year.” “That sounds about right. You’re just a little sugar cookie yourself.” That sounds kinda plain. I always thought of myself as a Swiss cake roll, complex and layered, either tightly wound or threatening to unravel and with a cream center. “How am I a sugar cookie?” “You’re very sweet, and you make such a mess of the sheets when I eat you in bed.” ‘Here lies Daphne,’ the mourners say. ‘First person to die by being compared to a cookie.’ ‘It was the compliment. She never did take compliments well.’ It was the internal squeeing. She had a massive aneurism.’ “Ahem … Uh … Mmm … Hurble stronket. I mean, ort foodlin. Urgh! Nahassa itabix ankrit. Mumpin!” I could say words very recently. Give it another try. “Cookie sheet!” “I think I know what you’re trying to say,” Mary said to me all grinning and stuff and being proud of herself for making my language center do a hard restart. I recovered quickly though. “Cookie … sheet … It’s a sheet … For baking cookies.” “You’re my cookie in the sheets.” “Wertterfetterer!” “Did I break my little girl?” “I’m not a little girl. But yeah to the first part, kinda. It’s very distressing.” “How is it distressing?” “Do you know how many months it will be before I can say ‘cookie’ without thinking about … you know?” “Cunnilingus?” “Mary! We’re in pubic… Public!,” I hissed. And I have delicate little ears. I don’t even like using the real names of parts down there. “You’re so cute today. Do you know how cute?” “Don’t say it.” “So cute I could gobble you up.” I knew she was gonna say that! “What a shade of red you turn. And it matches the color you’re blushing right now..” “Marrry! You’re embarrassing me.” “Is that why you’re practically snuggling up on my chest right now?” “Call me out one more time, and I’ll … something.” “You’re as good at thinking up threats as you are at thinking of presents.” “I’m gonna bite you later when and where you most expect it, and you’re only gonna like almost all of it.” “I’ll just hafta hold you and your bottom to that promise.” “Hey Mary, sine you're so wise and stuff, could you tell me the difference between falling in love and being in love?” “Being in love is what I am with you all the time. Falling in love is what I do every morning when I wake up next to you.” And then she kissed me. Can you believe that? Right on my forehead, which was so great and stuff and all the things. Sigh …

I’m loving this story! Keep up the good work

Btw, for those of you who like having a kindle or paper copy of the story, the latest volume is available on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKYCGSHT

I guess we’ll find out ?

Ya’ll just hafta live with the typos in this one ? cuz I hafta go do a thing after writing this Scene #192 Tinga-linga-ling … Tinga-linga-ling … Tinga-linga-ling. Based on the latest intelligence reports, nothing in our house makes that sound. Tinga-linga-ling … Tinga-linga-ling … Tinga-linga-ling. Off I went to investigate. Suzy’s collar has a little bell, but it’s not such a clean ring. Even if it were, unless she learned how to ring it - which is possible cuz she’s the best dog ever and stuff - it couldn’t be her. “Rrrr rufff bark!” Tinga-linga-ling. Or maybe it is. Do you put sounds a dog makes in quotation marks? Tinga-linga-linga-linga-linga-linga-linga-linga Wow. This is getting aggressive. You know who’s aggressive? Dominants. Especially the one I live with. She’s a predator, a she-panther devouring innocent little forest creatures like myself, completely feral. And she has a bell now, apparently. “There you are,” she had the nerve to say to me. Mary is the suavest person ever, but there was nothing suave about her right then: sitting on the couch, bell in her right hand holding it as high as she could while fending off Suzy with her left. Suzy and I were on the exact same page: we wanted that bell, albeit for different reasons. Why did I want it? If you stop interrupting me with questions, I shall tell you: I wanted it because I knew exactly what Mary was going to say. “You’re supposed to come the first time I ring it.” Nope. There was two of us and one of her. Strength in numbers. “You bought a bell … give it!” Which is when I lunged, and Suzy, so wound up and so simpatico with me, lunged too. “No,” Mary said, but she was laughing so it didn’t count. Not that I always listen to her when she tells me no, but I do cuz she’s in charge and I’m perfect, but also I don’t (and yet my perfection remains untainted; maybe I’m miraculous or something?). “Yes!” And I got that bell. Mary I guess wasn’t so committed to her new toy cuz she didn’t pounce on me like I figured she would. She loves pouncing on me; it’s what she-panthers do. “What are you doing with my bell,” she asked. “Fixing it.” As in, unscrewing the handle and thus breaking it down into its three parts. Mary watched, amused and all conflicted cuz I was being so rebellious and stuff, as I opened the back door, called to Suzy, and threw the ringy bit (about one inch long) into the grass. Suzy went after it, I shut the door, and I reassembled the bell (or whatever it is if it doesn’t ring). “You can have it back if Suzy finds it, but if you buy another one, I’m taking away your Amazon account,” I told my dominant. Who I, um, am not intimidated by. And why even bring that up, right? Cuz it’s not like once I said that there was any sudden loss of confidence. Really. Not like Mary rose from the couch grinning like she was so glad I did that cuz it gave her a reason to do stuff to me … and things. “Um,” I started very confidently into a brand new sentence, “did you, uh, need something? … You’re taller today. … Before you do whatever you’re gonna do …” Like full on attack me. That’s what she did. Full on attack me in the form of wrapping both arms around me, sweeping my feet off the floor, and there we were on the carpet: me, the innocent woodland bunny being viciously hugged by a she-panther. Sometimes when I see one of those videos where a carnivore animal is best buds with a prey animal they would normally feed on, I think, ‘O! Our spirit animals!’ “You’re sassy today,” Mary said to me. “I’m not answering to a bell.” “So when I want you I should just call your name?” “That system has worked very well for a long time. I’m very responsive.” My performance reviews back when I was a worker bee always said ‘Daphne is very responsive.’ “Unless you know you’re in trouble. Then suddenly you make yourself scarce.” “That’s not even a thing that’s true! I’m just short; you probably overlooked me.” Impossible, though, what with Mary’s she-panther sense of smell. “Also,” I said cuz I get to say stuff too, “you’re kinda wound up today.” “Cuz it’s gonna be a fun day.” “Why? What are we doing?” “I don’t know yet, but we’re gonna do it together, so it’ll be fun.” “I kinda am all the fun,” I said modestly. Very modest, quite humble. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘Who does she think she is coming from such humble origins?’ “No one says that, actually.” “What,” Mary asked. “Huh?” “No one says what, actually?” “O. I was responding to myself in my head.”You try holding three conversations at once. Sometimes you’ll say something meant for one conversation partner and another will hear it, and I don’t see why that’s any more unusual just because two of the person I’m talking to are me. “How many people are in there with you?” “Just me. I’m very chatty.” “I remember when I met you, you had a filter and everything.” “I still have a filter. You don’t even hear ten percent of what goes on in my head. And can I tell you a secret? Most of it’s about you.” “O really,” she said all smiley and stuff. “Yeah, and some of it is even nice.” Mary bit her (which is my job, actually) a sure sign she thinks I’m adorably quirky and stuff. So much stuff, so many things, yada, yada, etcetera etcetera … and so on and so forth. “So about this fun day,” Mary said with a twinkle in her eye, would you rather have fun at home or away from home?” “What if we have fun at home first and then have fun elsewhere later on?” “How very sensible of you. Up,” Mary said and stood up, pulling me after her. “I got you dirty,” she said. She brushed dog hair off the back of my shirt. Mary says I’m not allowed to vacuum the dog, but I think I’m gonna try anyway and see what happens. It just seems much more efficient. “Cuz you’re a big bully who knocked me down.“ “Hmm. Yeah … Be right back.” “I’ll be here, my love.” I call her that cuz she’s mine and I love her. What to do with our day, though. The thing with being childless and me not working is that the weekend isn’t taken up with driving junior humans around or chores. That’s great; however, like, we hafta make up ways to entertain ourselves each and every weekend. We don’t have chores or errands or social engagements, and you can only eat out, go shopping, and go on so many walks. I should use some of my free time to make a calendar of things to do. I guess we could start new hobbies, but me starting new hobbies is really just me buying stuff for the hobby but not, ya know, actually putting in the effort to do it. “Young lady?” And never mind. Apparently the next phase of our weekend has been decided in my absence. Cue Mary striding across the living room as though on a mission. She’d tied her hair up. What o what could that portend, and more importantly, would I like it? “Did you break Mary’s new bell?” Hold my wine; I got this. “No, and if she says I did, call her down here and let her accuse me right in front of you. Touché, Mary! If you thought being in two places at once is impossible try being two different people in the same room at once. I caught her off guard, what with the puzzled expression and the furrowed brow. I fooled her plan! “You’re getting a spanking.” For seven-eighths of a second, I foiled her plan. “But … but I have a right to face my accuser!” “Up.” Hey, I’m getting up for some reason. “Stand in front of me.” “Not until you admit I outsmarted you!” Hey, I’m standing in front of her. Stop doing that! “Just because your sister got a new toy is no reason for you to be jealous, and to break it just out of pique - what has gotten into you today?” “Stop unbuttoning my pants and admit I outsmarted you!” SMACK “OW!” “You do not try to stop me from taking your pants down, little girl.” Did anyone who’s not me notice I went from ‘young lady’ to ‘little girl’? Cuz heccin nope! “I can take ‘em down myself.” Not that I deserved a spanking, but there’s more dignity in taking your own pants down than having someone else take them down. Somehow … Not really. “You are far, far too little to take your pants down for a spanking, Daphne Ann. Now tell me why you broke her toy?” “Not until you stop speaking in the third person.” “Do I need to march you upstairs to get the paddle?” “Because ‘she,’” I said, verbally italicizing the third-person pronoun which nuh-uh even. Only two of us were there - why were we using third-person pronouns?!? “Because she was teasing me with it. I’m not gonna come when someone rings a bell at me.” “Over,” Mary ordered me and didn’t even wait for me. She just pulled me over her knee like she was gonna spank me or something, which is just unheard of in general and in specific too. Really. Hey, she put her leg across my ankles. Almost like she’s gonna do something that makes me kick my feet a bunch? “You come when your name is called. Why is a bell different?” “It just is, and you know it is.” Don’t pretend to me like you don’t know it is. “It is.” “So why am I getting spanked!?!” “Because a little teasing doesn’t excuse breaking someone’s toy. You may be a little girl, but I’ll not allow you to be a bratty little girl.” Heccin hey what?!? Was I bratty? Did she really think I was being bratty? We were laughing a minute ago. But … Brain, my brain said, do not do this. Do not get conflicted. Do not read anything into this. It’s just a scene. But what if I was bratty? What if ruined Mary’s fun? What if I hurt her feelings? You didn’t do any of that. You’re letting buttons be pushed for no good reason. Says you! Enough of you. Seriously. Eat farts! You deserve this spanking. You let your emotions get the better if you and broke her toy, and now you’re letting your emotions get the better of you again. Ha! I do deserve this spanking, and sucks to be you because we share a butt! Sometimes I think we’re a butt that shares a brain and not the other way around. What does that even mean?!? “I’m sorry,” I said to Mary. “I’ll do better (sniffle).” “… Daffy, look at me.” I looked over my shoulder. “Goodness gracious, what’s with the watery eyes? We haven’t even gotten started.” “I’m sorry I broke your toy. I didn’t mean to be a brat.” “You are such a silly goose. I was just teasing.” “Ha! I know you were just teasing and I was teasing back and ha! Ha, Mary! You’re the one who’s a silly goose!” Sometimes, very occasionally, the logical part of my brain wins out. Wow. Did anyone see that blinding white flash besides me? My butt hurts all of a sudden for some reason. Funny how whether the logical part of me or the emotional part of me prevails, my butt pays the price. And I wasn’t really in the mood to submit to a spanking. I decided to make her earn it. “I can tell now (spank spank spank spank spank) that there was no way (spankety spankety smack) there was no way you (wackety smackety spank) we’re getting to bedtime without a hot red bottom.“ “Don’t take my panties down!” “Excuse me, little girl?” “I’m not a little girl!” “So I’m not taking Frozen underoos off you right now?” “Aw, go shush yourself.” How is she so strong? I was legit trying to get away and I made zero forward progress. Lateral progress was good but not intentional, but I’ll take credit for it anyway. She pulled me back to the center of her lap. Hmmph! “Stop (spank) Your (spank). Wriggling!” SPANKSPANKSPANK and so forth. “You can’t spank me bare bottom!” “Olaf didn’t break anyone’s toy. Olaf doesn’t deserve a spanking. Your bare heinie does.” “Marrrryyyyy! It hurts!” “It’s a spanking! It’s supposed to hurt.” O yeah … Dammit … “Eep! Ow! Ow! Owowowowowow! Owie owie owie owie Marrrryyyyy!” What is she even with the started out fun and really toeing the line with the OW!!! DAMMIT! “Are you gonna break people’s toys anymore?” “No! I’ll be good! I’ll be good!“ “Good, because I don’t like having to spank your bottom, but I will if you need your bottom spanked. Sit up.” I only sat up because it was less embarrassing than laying across her lap, not because she told me to. Which is better, somehow. Trust me on it cuz I co clearly make very discerning choices that are always correct. Really. “I mean, missy. You and I are going out, and I won’t hesitate to spank your bottom in public.” Ooo, that’s an invitation. “Where are we going?” “The mall. Maybe we’ll do some Christmas shopping early. Lay back for me.” And just for headspace, while Mary was doing whatever she was doing, I was thinking how a spanking is supposed to ruin your day, but I’m such a well spanked girl that with such a strict woman looking after me that they rarely even ruin the hour. I mean, ours is just a spanking household. Totally normal. “Shoot,” Mary said. “Be right back.” And no, we’re not nudists in our household. It’s just that I spend so much time bare bottom that no one even notices anymore if I’m not wearing any bottoms to cover my bottom. Don’t get me wrong; it’s still super embarrassing having my red bottom on display. I mean, what if one of my friends just came over. Or what if my brother walked in. Or what if the paparazzi found me. I bet I’d get in trouble for that, which would be such a miscarriage of justice, but I’m a good girl. I’d take my spanking on my already red butt with my brother, my friends, and the tabloid media snapping pictures, probably live streaming it. I’d for sure cry just from the humiliation alone, and as much as I’d need the aftercare from my Mary, it would be so embarrassing sitting on her lap being comforted like an emotionally distraught little girl with my butt apple red and my legs wrapped around her and my princess parts almost on display back there and pressed up against Mary while she cooed and shushed and stroked my hair and kissed me temple and told me how sorry she was that I needed another spanking right after the first but that she’d spank me whenever and wherever and in front of whomever because she knows what’s best for me. Alone, thinking those thoughts… “Daffy,” Mary said when she returned from wherever she went, “is it polite to play with your princess parts in the living room?” “Whatever you do, please don’t scold me,” I said very innocently for I am very innocent and didn’t, um, stop my little game cuz sometimes if I play in front of this person named Mary she plays along. Actually, she’s the team captain, now that I think on it. But for the record I’m recording, I am not so innocent that I should be in diapers, which is what she went to get. Shoot. “Gimme your hand … Your other hand.” Dammit. Maybe it was the lust fooling me, but I thought for a moment I might get away with that. And I, um, only needed another moment. Two, at most. And then, Mary, see, she doesn’t exactly make things easy. Whatever do I mean by that? I mean she knew darn well whose finger that was and where it had been and she just put it in her mouth anyway. I just … “Please,” I asked ever since politely. “Sorry, hun.” She opened the package of baby wipes and cleaned off my hand. “Why do I hafta wear a diaper to the mall,” I asked not petulantly but, well, something. (Note to self: work on portmanteaus of ‘horny’ and ‘petulant’). “Because you’re just a little girl.” “Am not.” “Lift your bottom up.” Ugh! She got one of the huge pink ones. It might be my size, but it’s still huge. Goes so high up my back. Concealing them requires grandpa pants hiked up to my underarms, and I don’t own any grandpa pants. Guess it’s an undershirt kinda day. At least I can tuck those in. She spread the diaper under me and I, well, I didn’t open my knees for her. I left my knees open for her cuz they were already, um, ahem. “We’ll get you all cleaned up.” Can you blame a girl for trying if she were to, say as a random example, push her hips upward to meet the baby wipe as if to say, “Look how ready it is.” ‘It’ being the girl, of course, who is me. “I should spank your bottom again for doing that in the living room, but I think you’re already suffering enough.” “Urrrrgh! Hmmph!” Mary and me are so compatible in all the ways except for some, and one of the some is she has an orgasm denial kink and I do not. I do not. You might even say - syllogism of the year coming up - I get off on getting off. (But hey, don’t we all, literally?) “No grumps allowed. Just because your sister got a toy and you got a spanking isn’t a reason to be a grumpy goose.” This she says while being awfully careful about where she does and doesn’t spread the diaper cream. “And while we’re out, I don’t wanna hear one word about this diaper. You really acted like a naughty toddler breaking her toy, and if that’s how you’re going to act, that’s how I’ll treat you, diapers and all. Besides, we have a lot of shopping to get done, and we can’t be running to the potty every few minutes. It’s not your fault that you can’t hold it as long as other girls your age, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be practical about it and put you in diapers when it’s convenient.“ “Marrrrrry.” “Little girl, you are not nearly old enough to be wriggling those hips like that.” “I’m not doing it on purpose.” True story. “So is this diaper a punishment or because you’re doing that thing where you pretend I have accidents?” “Hmmm. The diaper is because of your accidents; that it’s big and pink and barely fits under your jeans is a punishment.” I just had to ask. I gotta stop doing that. “So if you need to potty, don’t even ask. You have permission to use your diaper. I won’t get mad.” “(Sound of me Audi lay rolling my eyes.)” “But you also let that be a reminder to you that when you act like a baby, that’s how you’ll be treated … But understand if you have a true accident, I u derstand you can’t help it. To be totally honest, I don’t really expect you to make it to the potty ever.” “Stop it! You’re only allowed to tease me from one direction at a time.” Smiling like she’s the queen of stuff and things and teasing and stuff. Hmmph! She patted the front of it which I barely even felt (urrrrrrrgh!) and told me, “Go find some pants that fit over your pampers, and I’ll get the diaper bag ready.” “Mary, there’s not way I’ll need a change at the mall. Can we just leave that thing at home?” “As leaky as my little girl, I don’t think you’ll need a change either, but if I have to bare your bottom and spank it again, it would be just plain mean of me to put your piddle pampers back on you.” O geez! “Be downstairs in five minutes. Don’t make me come get you.” “Fine.” “And Daphne?” “MMMM! … Mmmm … huh-ha!” Not that I enjoyed her sticking her tonight so far in my mouth or nothing or her groping me so flagrantly, but, I, uh, did, is the thing. Even knowing that, in addition to liking me and the inside of my mouth and and other parts, she was keeping me aroused cuz it delights her to make me desperate and watch me suffer until she decides the time is right. Anyway, like I was saying, it gets so dull having to make up things to do on Saturdays. We never have any fun. Really.