Alex Bridges

I had a feeling you’d like this chapter ?

Scene #191 I am Daphne. Hear me squeak. I roar most of the time. Pretty big roarer. The MGM lion? That’s me doing the voiceover. Really. It’s just that sometimes I also squeak. It’s Mary, this person I married, who makes me do it. She has a way with me. A gay way (cuz we’re way gay). Rifling through the cabinet under the bathroom sink is so fun. It’s like a treasure hunt, and the prize is the toiletries you bought when you were running low, forgot you bought, and then bought more of. We have so much toothpaste! No brand loyalty, it turns out, but so much toothpaste. Feminine hygiene products? None of. Which, like, how the heccin hey? “Mary,” I called out, “do you have a tampon in your purse? … Mary?” “Coming,” my dear darling wife called back on her way up the stairs. “Do you have a tampon in your purse or something?” “Did you start your period?” Why, golly gee, Mary, nope. I’m just looking for something to plug this wine bottle cuz I swallowed the cork whole by accident. The questions she asks sometimes … I did my yes-duh shoulder shrug. “No need to be embarrassed.” O for fruggin friggin frack. Know when Mary says that? When she’s about to (or has recently, or is in the course of) said or done something to embarrass me. Not a great time for it. True story. “Is that a no? And if it is, could you please go to the store for me?” “Sit,” she said, taking me gently by the arm as though that calms me rather than makes me anxious knowing she’s got something up her sleeve (if only it were a tampon). We sat on the edge of the tub, and she held my hand for a moment of silence while she made her this-is-a-meaningful-moment face at me. Well, I’ll tell you right now if she didn’t watch her step it could’ve become very memorable for all the wrong reasons (like my pouring shampoo on her head … While she’s wearing clothes … It washes right out. I’m so bad at being mean. Dammit). “Big day, huh?” “Is that a cut about my PMS, because I have been goddam delightful and you know it. Admit it. Admit you know it.” I really was. And I wasn’t anxious. She wasn’t making me anxious! Who even said that’s a thing I – conquress of galaxies, most confident of empresses – even experience? Liar, them. “Today you are a woman,” Mary pronounced like the mistress of ceremonies at The Worst Ever Rite of Passage Ever. “O god. Really?” “Yes, really. I guess it’s time I tell you about how our bodies work.” “O god! Marrrry!” “You’ve probably been noticing some changes in your body.” “You mean like right now? Cuz there’s this bile taste that wasn’t there until you …” “You’ll soon be ready to graduate out of your training bra.” “That joke is bitchy every time you say it.” I may as well have been in a different room for all the notice she took of me … Actually, she was taking all the notice, I’m sure, of the blush in my cheeks as it spread all the way to my ears. She thinks that means something, like it’s a signal I’m embarrassed an enjoying it just cuz I have this sexual thing for embarrassment. But guess what? I don’t always. Really. (No, really.) “You have hair in places you didn’t have hair before.” “I don’t, actually, which you’re very well aware of.” She’s very well aware. Intimately familiar with my parts and pieces from all the intimacy we do … and stuff. “You might be having some feelings about boys.” What the gross even with the … My Number One Problem with boys is that they’re not girls. That’s my position, and I’ve been very clear about it for more than fifteen years. “You are so not reading the room right now.” How hard do I hafta glare before she reads the room? This is my deadliest death stare and it doesn’t friggin work almost all the damn times I need it to. I’ve been cursed with a face that only gets cuter when I get angry, at least right up until I’m really angry and then it’s not cute at all. “But I think we need to deal with a certain situation first.” “If you use the M word or start in on any biological descriptions, I will lose my cool. Ya been warned. And yes with the situation. Back to my original question.” “Come,” she bade me. Not that I followed because I’m overly biddable but because she told me to and also because if she had a solution to the situation, then yes, please let’s go. Not that time was of the essence yet, but time was approaching a time when the essence of time might be a … thing. Alas, some sentences aren’t meant to be. “So first thing you need to know is that tampons aren’t appropriate for girls like you, if you get my meaning.” “No, gee, whatever could you mean,” I deadpanned. She thinks I haven’t noticed that she’s strategic in acknowledging my sarcasm. I’ve been spanked for being too sarcastic (is that even a thing?) one or nineteen times and counting, but when she’s delighting in her little mind games like this, I literally cannot roll my eyes hard enough. I once pulled my extraocular muscles rolling my eyes at such a time, and I got nothing to show for it. This was one of those times Mary opted to ignore my sarcasm and replied, “What I mean, sweetie, is tampons aren’t for virgins.” “I am not!” “I don’t believe such things about my good girl. You have been a good girl, haven’t you?” It is so toxic to attach ethics to virginity, but, um, “Yes’m.” Not my fault! I am blameless. She played a dirty trick asking me if I’ve been a good girl. I am a good girl. Being good is not something I do. It’s what I am. A good girl. One of the best ever. Mary’s good girl. It’s a whole thing. She doesn’t fight fair. I’m a very good girl and always have been. An example, you ask? I would argue that I’m the goodest girl when I’m trusting Mary that the thing she wants to do to me really is safe and what she wants to do it with really will fit just fine. How’s that for a virgin? Totally undermined her point, but she wasn’t making a real point anyway, so why even bring it up? Not like she was gonna stop anyway. And I was not there for it … May have been on my way tho. Cell location data is unreliable and stuff; no conclusive proof of where I was or for what purpose. She continued, cuz she loves to continue almost as much as she loves me, “Tampons can really be uncomfortable for girl like you who haven’t explored that part of their bodies before and also because … Well, we’ll have a talk some other time about penetration …” Just to interject, I will be there for that. With questions prepped for asking. And props to illustrate my questions and offer up as teaching aids. “… but I’m sure today is already overwhelming for you. Your growing body is just awash in new and exciting hormones.” Cut out the ‘new and exciting,’ and yes, yes it is. “Now, I know,” Mary continued to continue, “that you were hoping to outgrow your bedwetting by the time you became a woman.” “Nurplenunnery cuhnaffer nuffin, Mary!” “If you say so, sweetie,” the condescending condescender condescended to me with a pat on my head. “La’noofer foofin!” “All those hormones,” she tutted at me. At me! Me! “And …” How is she still talking after what I just said? Could I have been any clearer? “… I know you don’t want to hear it, but I want to reassure you that you’re not the only girl – excuse me, woman; it’ll take me a while to get used to that – who wears pull-ups for her period.” “Name two.” And also, no, I don’t, and since when, and no, I don’t. And also, really? Just really? Did she wait a month to tease me this way, or did the inspiration come the moment I called out her name? “They wouldn’t sell them if there wasn’t a market.” “You actually bought pull-ups meant just for …” “That would just be wasteful, silly goose. You may be growing up, but you’ll always be my silly goose.” “Geese are super serious! What are you even … urgh!” “Cramp?” “Frustration!” “Hormones.” “Marrrrryyyyyyy!” “I didn’t buy you special pull-ups. The ones you wear for long car rides will work just fine. Your Goodnites.” “I don’t wanna!” And no I don’t wear Goodnites on long car rides! Except for sometimes when she makes me, which is not the same as needing to. I mean, I need to cuz she says and she’s in charge, but I don’t need to need to. And that is, too, a heccin important distinction! “You don’t wanna wear your Goodnites? Is it cuz you’re worried about leaks because of that time on the way to the lake? I know you’re probably very concerned with it being your first time, but I promise you that you don’t need to wear your sleep time diapers for your period. Unless you want to. I’ll understand if you wanna be cautious and stay in diapers until you’re more comfortable with your womanhood.” “I’m moving out and taking the dog. You can come too and all.” I wouldn’t leave her behind; I like her very much. “And you say you’re not a silly goose. Stay right where you are.” “O gee, o golly. For whatever reason could you be going into the closet.” Like that’s ever a mystery anymore. “Just because you’re a woman today doesn’t mean I’ll hesitate to spank your bottom like a little girl. Well, if she thinks that would shut me up, then she knows me well, is what. “Hormones aren’t an excuse for poor choices in this house,” she reminded me when she emerged from the closet. That is, in fact, an actual rule. PMS is no excuse for being a bitch. We had that written down somewhere at some point, which was redundant cuz Mary did such a good job making my memorize that rule while holding me over her knee. “Let me get your changing pad down,” she narrated as she laid it on the bed. “I’ll get you all cleaned up and into your pull-up.” “What? Please no?” “Diaper instead?” “I don’t need you to clean me up. I’ll wear the stupid pull-up. Give it here.” “Not this conversation again,” she sighed as though we had ever had this conversation before. I can assure you, dear diary, we have not ever. “I’m not having it; understand, missy? I see everything you have every night at diaper time, and I also see a little remedial homework on wiping wouldn’t exactly be uncalled for despite your age, so if you think I’m going to let you [audio interference]. “I mean, I haven’t wanted to hurt your feelings, and I know your bedwetting and potty habits are a sore subject. But I guess it’s past time for that little brush up course. But until you can show me you can [static] your [white noise], it’s best if I [tinnitus] … Especially since it’s your first [trombone noise like in Charlie Brown] …” And then I’m not sure what she said next. There was blackness, and then when I came to I was horizontal. I was laying there thinking she did it; Mary finally did it. She pushed all the right buttons and said all the embarrassing things, and it led to a massive stroke. The blood pooled in my face, not enough reached my brain, and I had a stroke. Blam. Stroked out on the floor. Which in itself is so embarrassing … What a spectacle I must’ve been all sprawled out. Especially after my shorts and underthings came off somehow. But there was no lump from smacking my head on the floor, and the floor felt awfully like a bed, and the carpet felt awfully like the comforter on our bed. So not a stroke. Did she do magic on me? She is a sorceress, after all. Or maybe I’ve repressed the memory. Or maybe my mind – which is the smartest ever – just pre-empted the whole thing. Nope; not hearing it; no memory to repress cuz we’re not making that memory at all; leave it on the cold, windblown steppe to die of exposure. “Daffy,” Mary said to me, “did you hear a word I said?” “No cuz I had a stroke I think. Please don’t be mad at me.” I’m normal and not pathetic. Admit it! Admit I’m normal and not pathetic, dammit! And then tell Mary, cuz she was making her Daphne-isn’t-quite-normal-and-my-goodness-but-that-was-pathetic-even-for-her-at-her-subbiest face. “Sweetie, I’m not mad. I was saying that I know this is embarrassing for you, but it’s just one of those things. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Like how I wipe the peepee off your minnie in the morning before you take your shower? And how I wipe your bottom at diaper time just in case you didn’t do a good job that day? And like when you have a stomach bug?” It would be really childish to start going ‘la la la. La la la la la la. I can’t hear you. La la la la la dee da la la’ out loud, so I just did in my head where it’s totally fine. “You’re just as pretty to me, and I’ll always help you down there no matter what you need help with. Does that make sense?” Honestly, not even a little. “Mhmm.” But if it will move the day forward, I’ll say ‘mhmm’ to a lot of stuff. PS, she really was with the wipe down there and I was just also in the room having an out of body experience, which was fine with me. I didn’t want to be in that body anyway. Too bad I couldn’t have had an out-of-room experience too. She threaded my feet through the pull-up and got it to my knees when she said, “Stand up for me.” See, despite not wanting to know anything about pull-ups, I have learned a thing about them, which is that when they’re around your knees, they’re not on and won’t work. But stand up I did anyway. “Now,” she said with her this-is-meaningful-but-not-really tone, “I know you really wanna feel like all the other girls who don’t wet their beds and started their periods more, ya know, on schedule. I know you know it’s okay to be different, and I also know sometimes it really sucks being different, so I got you something.” And back into the closet she goes. Actual closet. Way too gay to back into the proverbial one. Not sure which part of the Book of Proverbs that closet was featured in, but not the part I learned about in Wednesday School (Sunday School, but Wednesday evenings cuz Catholic or some other reason). She seemed all excited when she emerged. She was excited. Excited for my reaction, I’m sure, rather than the thing she was pretending to be excited for. “I know this is redundant, but just so you feel like the other girls, I got you some pads to wear inside your pull-up.” She … what? “What?” “Some panty liners. Watch closely. See how I peel this off and then position it here?” “What?” “Do you need to show you again? It’s okay if you do.” “Why the heck didn’t you just say we have pads? What even is happening right now? When even is it?” “It’s that time of the month, and what’s happening is I’m pulling your pull-up up for you. There,” she said like a crazy person cuz she’s a crazy person. Obviously so cuz she did, as it turns out, plan this at some point over the past month. “And now you can run and bounce and play without having to worry about anything,” Crazy Mary said, which is exactly the kind of crazy thing crazy people say. I mean, a month? She’d waited a month for this little scene? Talk about your delayed gratification. I mean, I know Mary is a very Type A person, but no one should be able to pass the marshmallow test that well. It’s just not right. Back to the scene … “… What?” “I just thought you’d feel really weird knowing that you finally got your period but still don’t use feminine hygiene products like the other girls, so …” “So …” “Now you do .” … … “What?” “Sit back down with me,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and sitting down on the bed. “Why am I wearing a pull-up if we have pads?” “Cuz you still wet the bed.” “Even if that were a true thing, it doesn’t even make sense?” “Yes, it does.” “No, it doesn’t.” “Yes. It does. Maybe not to women who are still little girls, but you just need to trust me on this. One day when you’re older, you’ll understand. You may be a woman today, but you still have a lot of growing up to do … Who knows? Maybe your pediatrician is right and you’ll outgrow your wetting after all.” “(Sniffle).” “Awww. There are those hormones again.” Yep, there they were. And then she kissed me and rubbed my back. Hmmph. And more sniffles. “Any more questions about the changes and feelings you’re experiencing now.” I’m gonna hate myself for this later, but only briefly. Fuck. Here goes: “Um, can you, uh, explain, ahem, uh, masturerururfur?” “What was that sweetie?” “Could you, um, explain masturbation to me?” “Right now,” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. O my gawd she’s smiling so wide! What even with the dammit and she’s pretty and stuff and clearly so happy she was right about how I’d feel about all this and dammit … and stuff. “Yes,” I admitted so damn grudgingly I still hold a grudge about it and I don’t even know against who or what. “That’s okay; right now is okay. Nothing to be embarrassed about.” “Stupid hormones and stupid bodies and stupid kinks,” I muttered. “I love your hormones and your body and your kinks. Lay back.” Which I did. “First part of the lesson,” she said as she put her hand on my pull-up (still technically hers), “this is nothing to be embarrassed about.” “That’s just not true.” “How lucky you are to have a humiliation fetish then,” she chuckled. “So the first thing is if you’re gonna do this during this time a month, you should do it in the bathroom, but it’s okay to do it in the bedroom so long as your pull-up stays on and your hands stay on the outside of it like this. See how I’m moving my hand right now? Feel it pressing against your …” Which is when I squeaked.

Daphne is pretty good at holding her own ... eventually. We shall see!

Scene #190 Know how you’re visiting a relative or friend with little kids and they wanna show you their room, and you go look at it because you can’t say no but really couldn’t give a heccin hoot? Yeah, that. Despite the ageplay turn our domestic discipline lifestyle took circa a while back, Mary and I actually don’t have many ageplayer friends. We haven’t played with many. There’s Tommy, the otherwise pleasant gentleman who turns into the most annoying pre-teen when he slips into his middle headspace, which he does in my presence and refuses to get it through his thick head that I’m not a little. And there’s Jane, my bestie who identifies as a little and lives the lifestyle with her wife and mommy, Lisa. I’ve been around Jane a lot when she’s been little, but her play age ranges a lot. She doesn’t really commit to it the way Ann seems to, like she doesn’t dress like a little very often, her house doesn’t look like a kid lives there, she flips in and out of the mindset with ease (so much so I don’t think it’s a mindset all the time, more a behavioral choice), and it’s easy to see where her real personality stops and starts. Maybe that’s because I’ve known her for a long time. I’d known Ann for an hour, sixty-five whole minutes if you count the five (actually less) during the play event we met at. She wasn’t dressed as a little there. I wouldn’t have ever known she was a little. They cleaned up their living room for our visit, I realize now, or I’m sure we would’ve seen her toys spread on the floor. Turn on the TV, and I’m betting it would tuned to cartoons. Because if her room was any indication … I say ‘room,’ but Jo wasn’t overselling it when she said ‘nursery.’ And I’ve been saying ‘little,’ which Ann is, but Adult Baby would be fittingly more descriptive. Mary, among whose cognomens is The One Who Started It, is more familiar with adult baby stuff than I am. I don’t think she looks at ABDL porn … I don’t think. But I know she looks at ABDL stores because she buy things for me to wear. I have steadfastly refused to look at those stores (steadfastness being one of qualities) because I have not wanted to give any hint that I’m supportive of the diaper wearing or the accessories that go with it. All to say that I didn’t know this stuff existed. “Do you like it,” Ann asked me. Holy. Heccin. Muffin tops. This is … Really? First off, a crib. An actual crib. The woman has a crib. Like, with a mobile clipped to the side and what I think is a video baby monitor. It’s on the opposite wall from a changing table. The table had a rainbow-colored padded top, and it ended in two padded legs (I guess is the best way to describe it?) which I quickly deduced made it easier for whoever was changing her to get closer to her, um, diaper area. Diaper Genie. Toy chest. Bookshelves full of board books. Toys spread everywhere across a padded play mat. An activity table with … Gasp! Legos! “Uh, yeah, I like it.” What was I gonna say? ‘No, it freaks me out a little?’ “Jealous?” Ann, as far as I knew at that point, doesn’t talk in affected little voice. Did she want me to be jealous? Would it be polite to say yes? Was I supposed to be humoring her like when a little kid shows you their room? “It’s a very pretty room,” was my response of choice. She sat, more like flopped, down on the floor and started playing with her stuffies. I did what I do best, stood there awkwardly and wished Mary would appear at my side. She’s good at relating to little kids and Littles. Good thing watching her interact with little girls has never made me jealous or caused any feelings of resentment or envy. I mean, it’s not like Mary’s attention and affection are finite resources or anything … except that they are in the moment. And btw, I married her; I own her affection and attention. Legally binding vows we exchanged: love, honor, and protect (Mary’s) and love, honor, and obey (mine). But I’ve been generous with letting her share her attention with others … Except when she actually does it. Nope, changed my mind. Mary could stay downstairs. “You don’t like stuffies,” Ann asked. She stood back up. “You wanna color instead?” Not really. I’m good at drawing and have done my share of adult coloring books, but I didn’t want to color with her. “C’mon,” she said to my uncertain silence. “It’s fun.” She took my wrist and tugged me to the corner of the room between the changing table and wall. Had it not been for the giant crib, giant changing table, smell of diapers, and stuff all over the floor, I would’ve noticed that the corner was covered in art. I’m guessing Ann’s art, drawn the way a little would. Drawn, scribbled, same thing. “Are we allowed to do this,” I asked. I remember well the spanking I got for coloring on the wall. Easy to remember cuz it was only two years ago (she was right and did know better, but I was trying to make lockdown more fun for Mary and I succeeded). “Yeah. When it gets full, Mommy paints it again.” “Don’t they make paint you can draw on and wash off?” “I dunno. I’m only thwee.” I can’t even with adults baby talking. Wanna raise the pitch of your voice, fine. Wanna talk nonsense, who doesn’t? But baby talk, ugh. Not that I said anything. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was instead looking at her activity table with its selection of legos. I like legos. I used to play with my brother’s cuz he had all the cool legos. I had the pastel legos, the little ten dollar box to build a lego kitchen. I wanted to build castles and ships and planes and things, and Mom, wise as she is, simply declared all legos in the household community property. My brother wasn’t happy about it, but my lego army defeated his lego army in The Battle of The Plastic Soldiers That Don’t Move. My soldiers just stared his down … That’s when Dad started making us play with other children more. “You’re not drawing,” Ann said impatiently. “Is this to get me in trouble?” “Is what?” “Drawing on the wall. You convince me it’s okay, then we get in trouble and you said it was my idea, and I take all the blame?” “But there was stuff on the wall already when you got here.” Fair point. “Aren’t you thwee right now? Don’t be so logical.” “I wouldn’t get you in trouble on purpose.” “Other littles do.” Tommy, wherever you are, you suck. And Jane, it’s … complicated. “I would get us in trouble on purpose, but never just you. But I’ll tattle. I’m a tattle tale.” “Do you wanna be a narc when you grow up? … I’m a smartass, by the way … And sometimes it’s not easy to tell when I’m being a smartass and when I’m just being awkward. But I’m never mean on purpose. I tried once, it I chickened out and just cried.” Hey, Daphne, don’t tell her so much. You just met her. Well she just met me, and she flooded her diaper on the floor. Fair point. “You keep looking at my legos. You wanna help me build?” “Sure,” I said like a person who wasn’t excited to play with legos cuz I hadn’t done it in many, many years. I resolved there and then to text my mom and ask her to send me my old legos, but then I remembered I’m a grownup and can buy legos myself … so long as they’re under $100. But also if they’re over, if I have Mary’s permission. Which is a very grownup thing to need. As are legos. “What are we building?” “A … house.” Great thing about legos? They’re perfect for making new friends, by which I mean you can build together without talking, perfect for awkward people who don’t know what to say. The only downside is awkward people are often anxious people who sit quietly, looking outwardly calm, all the while wondering if they’re in a comfortable silence or if the other person is wondering what’s wrong with them and why don’t they say anything and if Miss Awkward is judging them and being rude, which Miss Awkward does not want them to think but also maybe they’re not thinking anything but how is Miss Awkward supposed to know the person’s signs and shouldn’t Miss Awkward say something cuz what if the other person is uncomfortable and it’s Miss Awkward’s responsibility to make people feel comfortable cuz she has this lifelong desire to please others that borders on pathological? “I’m not judging you,” I said to break the silence. And just to clarify, I’m not Miss Awkward. My last name is Taylor. Mrs. Mary Taylor. That’s how I’m addressed in fancy mail. Do you think Mary told the post office to use her first name, or do junk mailers just sense she’s in charge? “Um, okay. I didn’t think that.” “Good. Cuz I don’t.” “That’s a weird thing to just blurt out.” “Not if you listen to the words I don’t say. Then it makes perfect sense.” “Heehee. That’s weird too. I’m thwee so I get to be very direct and it’s cute.” “Same, but cuz I’m delightfully offbeat.” That’s how Mary explains me to people sometimes and doesn’t know I know that she does. “Can I ask you something,” Ann asked me. “Sure.” “Are you a little or not?” I wish I had something to drink so I could do a spit take and we could focus on that instead. “Um,” I said because I’m clever and wasn’t at all embarrassed or uncertain what to say. “I’m … Why?” “Mommy said you’re a little. And I saw you get a spanking, and you had diapers in your bag.” “You wear diapers too.” I said not at all defensively. “Yeah, cuz I’m a little.” She smiled like she was o so proud of that. “Well, no. I’m not a little. I’m Mary’s little girl,” which I only agree with cuz Mary says so all the time and she’s in charge of me, “but I’m not a little.” “So you’re a middle with potty problems?” “No! I do not have potty problems. Not even for role play.” “It’s okay to have potty problems. Mommy says so. She keeps trying to potty train me, but I don’t wanna, but don’t tell her or I’ll get in trouble.” “Well, potty training is tough.” “I have a training potty if you wanna see. Mommy put it in the closet cuz she said it was maybe too much for you guys.” But a diaper isn’t? I’m so confused. “But it was Mommy who decided I have to wear pull-ups all the time.” “All the time? Even to work?” I assumed she had a job. “You mean school? We don’t call it work. Everyday Mommy makes me lunch or gives me lunch money and sends me off to school with extra pull-ups. The worst is she makes me bring them all home so she can see if I had an accident.” “What do you … What kind of school do you go to?” “Human Resources school.” “You don’t attend virtually?” See? See how good I am at picking up on these games? “Some days, but I like school. I like helping other people get into my school. Do you go to school?” “No. I used to, but I know everything there is to know.” “You’re silly.” “No you.” Ha! Got her. “So I wanted to wear my big girl underpants to school, but Mommy says I’m not allowed anymore after this one time on the way home. But I don’t mind so much. No one knows at school, and I have a classroom to myself. At home I get to wear them u less I have an accident; then I hafta wear diapers, but I like them. Sometimes I even ask, but ,list of the time I just potty and wait for Mommy to find out.” “Uh-huh.” “How come you wear diapers?” “Okay, so first, I don’t. Second, it started as a punishment. Now Mary just likes me in them.” “You call your mommy by her name? Isn’t that naughty?” “She’s not my mommy … It’s not weird to call your wife ‘Mommy?’” “Why would it be weird?” “I dunno. Just … feels like it should?” “Mommy says I hafta call her Miss Mary until we get to know you better. She says I can call you Daphne. Heehee.” Little smartass. “You don’t get embarrassed sometimes? Like in the living room? Not that I minded.” “Toddlers wet their diapers. What’s to get embarrassed about? Why, do you?” “Yeah.” “But you like it.” “Maybe sometimes.” “No, you like it. I saw you get your bottom spanked. You like being embarrassed.” “It’s complicated.” “I get spanked sometimes too. We have a room for it.” “Every room in our house is a room for it.” “Are you talking about little girls getting their bumbums spanked,” Jo asked as she appeared over my shoulder. “Yeah,” Ann replied. “Look at my house.” “It’s a very nice house,” Mary said. “If Daphne being a good helper?” Is … is Mary baby talking to Ann? Is that … HMMPH! “Uh-huh. She didn’t wanna play stuffies or color, but she really wanted to play legos. She was too shy to ask, but she did ask lotsa questions about my pull-ups and diapers and being little.” O yeah, she did say she’s a tattle tale. “Did she,” Mary asked with a twinkle in her eye. “Uh-huh, and she says you make her wear diapers for punishment and just cuz and that she gets embarrassed by it. I don’t get embarrassed by it cuz I’m baby, but she does, but ya know what? Ya know what? I think she likes to be embarrassed.” Hard to get mad at her for spilling the beans when she told Mary literally nothing she didn’t know already. “You two can keep playing,” Jo announced like she’s the boss of me. Mary is the boss of me. And no, I wasn’t just getting grumpy with everyone. I wasn’t grumpy at all. I was … poised for grumpiness if the situation called for it. “What do you think,” Jo asked Mary. “It’s incredible. You’ve got one lucky baby. I love the changing table.” “It’s a life saver. My poor back.” “I can’t even imagine. My back gets sore, and she’s not even diapered full-time. It’d also be nice to have the diapers right there. Hers are in the closet. Actually, I used to out some in her undie drawer.” Quite a few pairs of my panties are missing and presumed hidden somewhere in the house. Mary steals. “And I love the crib.” Shut up your face! “I can give you the name of the person who made it.” Shut up your face too! “O, thank you but no. Daffy and I are committed to co-sleeping.” “Damn right we are,” I muttered. “We fuck a lot too.” “Daphne Ann!” Aw shit. I need to practice my muttering. Shit shit shit. Six eyeballs looking right at me. Dammit … and stuff. “Um, doesn’t count cuz none of you were supposed to hear that.” “I’m so sorry,” Mary apologized on my behalf. “She uses vulgar language as cover when she’s feeling vulnerable. We’re working on it.” “It’s okay.” “You’re getting a pass on that, missy, but don’t think I won’t paddle your butt in front of our new friends.” “Speaking of, I promised to show you the punishment room,” Jo said. Ann’s eye widening caught my eye, the brow of which arched in curiosity. Ann even blushed. I don’t think I’d seen her blush yet. Jo opened the walk-in closet. Of course I wanted to go in, and no amount of blushing little would stop me. It only made me more curious. Know what was in that closet? Well, I shall tell you. Little girl clothes, bags of diapers and diapering supplies, and a door. Narnia. Her punishment room is Narnia, I guessed. Not that I’ve read that. Do they go through a door to get there? Is that even how the story goes? Never mind cuz Jo produced from her pocket a key. Into the room I followed, and like Howard Carver almost exactly 100 years ago, I saw wonderful things. There’s more to this little than meets the eye. “We wanted the room to be especially private, so we took out the hallway door and put one in the closet,” Jo explained. Personally, I think they got it backwards. Surely a veritable sex dungeon would spark fewer questions should a guest stumble upon it than an adult baby nursery, but I guess they had their reasons. Just like they had their reasons for the many treasures in inner sanctum: furniture treasures; treasures that hang from ceilings; treasures that run on direct current; treasures that make pain happen and treasure that make pain go away. Treasures that would hurt me and not in a good way. I mean, Ann isn’t so much bigger than me, so how she could fit all … I mean, even if I could without doing myself a terrible injury, I just don’t think getting punched in the lung from the inside would feel … anyhoo. But that aside, “We should all misbehave so badly,” I said unbidden even by me. “See something you like,” Mary asked me with her eyes a-sparkle with a thousand possibilities, all the hopes and dreams of generation upon generation of sexually frustrated, kinky lesbians flashing before her like the light emitted by the maternal smile of our almighty and benevolent god … and stuff. “Um … Yes. Yes, I do.” I glanced back at our hosts, Jo watching us with her arm around Ann, who looked mortified. So if you’re looking for difference between us, there’s one: I don’t mind talking sex stuff in front of other people, but I do mind wetting myself in front of other people. Not so Ann. I felt kinda bad for her. But it’s really important that Mary knows what I want for Christmas. “This is, uh,” I said not bash fully but more of in a made-wordless-by-a-religious-ecstasy kind of way and stuff, “we should consider.” “We do have a spare room,” Mary said while touching it. “I can just picture you now, lying on your changing table with your legs up, diaper under you to catch anything, strapped down while I’m downstairs turning it up and down … and up.” “I can never so good … or ever so bad, whichever makes that happen.” I’m flexible like that. “Quite the set up you got here,” Mary said because one of us needed to before we forgot where we were and with whom and whose toys belong to which lesbian. “Thought you’d like it.” “I think we should go before we wear out our welcome,” Mary suggested. “And it’s time for this one to go down for a nap,” Jo said, kissing Ann on the temple and making her blush again, but with a sort of starry eyed look like she was very happy to have Jo for a mommy, and very happy for us to leave the punishment room, which isn’t entirely an accurate name for it. As we were about to go back downstairs, Ann whispered something to Jo. Jo replied, “Do you want the big potty or little potty?” Ann, not blushing anymore, only shook her head. “Do you wanna get changed before or after nap time?” “Before.” I chose and continue to choose to not know what any of that meant. I guess Mom was right and some things are better repressed from our minds. We said goodbye to Ann in her nursery, hugs all around (and don’t think I didn’t see Mary pat her diaper butt), yet it was a brief goodbye because Ann seemed like she was trying to be very polite and couldn’t remain so genteel much longer. Personally, I chose and continue to choose to not know what I meant by that. Downstairs, Jo showed us out. “Thank you for coming.” “It was our pleasure. What do say, Daffy?” “Thank you. I had a good time.” “I’m sure Annie had a wonderful time playing with you.” “I’ll text you about that pool party,” Mary said. I had questions to follow up on about that. “Can’t wait. Have a safe drive home. I got a poopy diaper to go change.” I chose and continue to choose to not know what the heck that heccin even means! A little help with my denialism, please?!? Mary chuckled, “Good luck. I know what that’s like.” “Marrry! No, you heccin don’t!” And I didn’t pout my way to the car, and I didn’t perk up when Mary called me a good sport. “I think you and I have some online shopping to do when we get home.” And no I did not get excited and blurt out, “Legos!?!” “I meant the fucking machine,” Mary said with this look on her face like she married someone weird, which she didn’t even. “O. Maybe we can build one out of legos … teehee.” I got a kiss for being cute (not awkward and cute, just cute). “I will happily buy my little girl some legos.” “Sweet.” “And the machine too.” “Super sweet.” “You think she’s up on her changing table right now getting her … “Marrrry!”

I wanted to write a follow up chapter much quicker, but my grandpa died this past week. Not really in the mindset and scrambling to support my parents and have a business trip coming up and just … how was it that I used to crank out a chapter a day? What was my secret?

funny story. There’s this concert series in the summer in the local park, and sometimes my extended family goes and makes an evening of it. This was about 15 years ago. I had a lot of young cousins then. I was about 21 myself. My mom told me to go with another of my older cousins to help watch the little ones on the playground. Like, 6 cousins between four and seven, several of whom were actually second cousins I couldn’t pick out of a line up, and about a hundred other crazy kids and their parents on this small playground. It was all I could do to keep track of where my little cousins were in the crowd. My 4-year-old cousin said he needed the bathroom, and my thinking was (1) I have zero experience with kids that young, (2) I have zero experience taking little kids to the bathroom, (3) I can’t take him back to his mom because I’m barely keeping track of all these little kids as is. So what did I do? I pretended like I didn’t hear him. Concert ends. My sister is helping my aunt get all her kids and stuff in her car, and she’s giving the 4-year-old a piggy back ride to the car when the dam breaks. He peed all over her back and filled his shorts for good measure while my sister stood there with this something-is-happening-and-there’s-nothing-I-can-do-to-change-it expression I’ve never told anyone ?????????????

I'm loving this story. You're doing so well with the characters and balancing the kink with the plot.

Scene #189 Their doorstep was ordinary, so that was a good sign. Or a bad sign. One of the two. Probably. I’m decisive like that and stuff. “I’m not nervous; you’re nervous,” I said preemptively to Mary, who I swear was taller on the afternoon we met Jo and Ann at their house. Either she was taller or seemed taller, or she was standing up straight. Her parents instilled all these good habits in her, like standing up straight. It’s kinda gross actually, now that I think on it, the way she has so many good qualities and habits. A showoff, that’s what she is. I mean for cripes sake (whatever that means), she works in IT! Where does she get off being the only person in the entire IT profession with good posture and no back pain? Not that I don’t appreciate the way she can bend. Ever notice how the people who make the diagrams showing how you’re supposed to sit at a computer don’t themselves work at a computer? Like, thanks physical therapists who already have inhuman flexibility and range of motion, but you’re not helping. I mean, ever try to sit like the diagram? The monitor is a million miles away! Not that I work anymore, but I am a committed diarist. I’m not rambling; you’re rambling. I was having this perfectly good train of thoughts as we waited for Jo and Ann to open their front door for us when Mary decided to interrupt me by doing one of those ninja moves where she puts her arm around my waist so I can’t get away and pulls up my shirt and it all happens so fast that before I can do anything to stop her from committing yet another of her misdeeds, she’s blowing a raspberry on my tummy. That’s, uh, definitely a thing ninjas do. Really. “Heehee! St-stop!” “Pbbbbt!!!” “Heeeheeehee! Mar-eeeeeeee!” Which is when the door opening and everything before Mary straightened up (and I swear to gawd she was even taller!). What a fine way to make a poor impression, am I right? “She had a little something on her tummy,” Mary said to our hosts without loosening the arm that held me even a little. She likes me and stuff, my Mary does. Wants me close at all the times. Heccin true story. “Yeah,” I mumbled, “a giant lesbian with boundary issues right there on my tummy.” One who pinches you discreetly when you mumble smart aleck remarks in front of people you just met. “You must be Jo,” Mary said and held out her hand. I was right; Mary was nervous. I could tell because we’d facetimed with them the day before, so it’s not like we didn’t know what they looked like. It was a good refresher for me; I remembered Ann from the play party as the kindly if butt-in-skee young woman who gathered up our things for us while Mary was giving me aftercare post public spanking (that I didn’t even deserve but o my gawd did I want), but I didn’t remember her face. Probably something to do with me crying unreservedly and keeping my face pressed against my Mary where it’s safe. It’s even safe to slime her shirt; something about crying women with red butts being sexy and cute to her? She’s so weird; weird and tall. A shapeshifter actually, who purely by coincidence gets taller when I feel smaller and in need of protection, which I don’t ever. Just saying. Anyhoo … “So nice to finally meet the two of you in person,” was the so clichéd way Jo greeted us, right up there with Mary’s cliché. Not that I instantly copped an attitude as a defense mechanism or anything. Really. And Ann was standing just like me, with her dominant’s arm around her waist. But she wasn’t like me. For onesies, she didn’t look anxious at all. For twosies, she’s a little. Which I’m not, as I think I’ve said shouted before many, many times. Like, all the times. She was dressed the part too. It was subtle; she could wear what she was wearing out in public and probably not draw any attention, but having been around ageplayers and Mary thinking she’s way sneakier than she is when she finds ‘totally normal’ things for me to wear, I could tell her outfit was no accident. Shortalls, tee shirt with frilled piping on the sleeves, pink sneakers, and a pony tail. And yes, I have the same outfit, but it’s for working in the garden and totally practical. And my sleeves don’t have frills. And shut up. Whereas I had dressed for the occasion by wearing exactly what I would be wearing anyway despite Mary clucking at me like a mother who was doing her utmost to stop herself from telling her teenage daughter to go change into something nice for fear of triggering some kind of near-fatal emotional standoff. I wasn’t being rude or snooty or dismissive though. I just didn’t see the point of putting on anything nicer than my usual Sunday shorts and tee. It’s hot still. Mary didn’t exactly put on anything special either. Those high-waisted khaki shorts of hers that are an exact replica of what Laura Dern wore in Jurassic Park (and give off all the domestic vibes that just … ugh. Yes please and do it to me twice). And this peach top that was new, but I think that was a coincidence. I could eat a peach for hours … sigh. As for Jo, as we crossed the threshold and I got a good look at her, she was older than I realized by a good seven or so years. She and Ann definitely had an age gap going that was about twice the gap between Mary and me (eight years, by way of reminding my diary … as if I might forget, I guess?). I would guess (and I did guess) Ann was just a year or two younger than me, and Jo was about five years older than Mary. She had her hair up and was wearing capris; she looked like a woman coming from or going to Target, and she had a slight southern accent that I couldn’t narrow down to a state because I only like to pretend I’m expert enough to tell the differences but, ya know, I’m not. Don’t tell the bumpkins though cuz they’ll believe anything. I made my first million in a patent medicine show, and … anyhoo. Mary was nervous because she was worried I’d be nervous. Possibly also that I would be churlish and distant, but she gets nervous when we go outside our (mostly my) comfort zone because she’s protective of me. She doesn’t want me to have a bad experience or even just not a good time. The first couple times I took her home with me to Wisconsin for Christmas, she apologized to me for it being so cold. Tall and weird, like I said, and also very sweet. She let go of my waist only to hold my hand all the way to the sectional sofa Jo led us to. They sat on the other half of the L. “I made some sweet tea and baked some cookies,” Jo said, gesturing toward the pitcher and tray on the coffee table. “I helped,” Ann announced. Show off much? Geez. “Yes, my little munchkin did,” Ann said and – public display of affection in your own home much? – kissed her on the cheek. They say the best first dates are activities rather than drinks or meals because it takes some of the pressure off to talk the whole time and the awkward pauses that ensue, and that would’ve been a good idea for the four of us. I was thinking this as the three of them easily feel into conversation, so really just a good idea for me, but all for one and one for all … cuz we’re musketeers, apparently. What water is to pavement is not at all what my mind is to tangents. And shut up. “Do you like it,” Jo asked a person who turned out to be me. “I can get you something else.” “Huh?” I make the best first impressions, hands down. I’m an impressionist, actually, of the first order … and stuff. Really. “O! It’s very good,” I said and took my first sip of tea. Actually, it was kinda cloying, which coming from me is like a smack addict saying fentanyl makes them feel funny, not that I’m addicted to sugar like Mary says I am. I just get anxious if there isn’t any in the house, a totally non-addict thing to feel. Um, really. Nor do I get weird if I have too much sugar, not that it stopped Mary from saying, “Only one glass, Daffy. She gets a little hyper if she has too much sugar.” I do not. Mary and me are excellent examples, paragons actually, of how a married couple can disagree and still love each other. And it’s not all sugar; it’s just sugar as manifested in the earthly form peanut butter enveloped in chocolate, which is the ambrosia the ancients spoke of. And it’s not even that cuz I don’t get weird on peanut butter. In fact, I’ve never done anything weird in my life. Much too dignified and logical and exemplary of all humankind’s best qualities for that sort of nonsense. Really. And shut up; no one is asking you. “Are you excited for Halloween,” Ann asked me. “Mhmm. We’re going to trunk-or-treat at the lifestyle center. We haven’t been since before the pandemic.” “What are you gonna dress up as?” “We haven’t decided yet.” “I’m going as a sheep, and Mommy … oops, I mean Jo is going as Big Bo Peep.” “It’s okay if you wanna call her ‘Mommy’ in front of us. You’re gonna make a very cute sheep.” I had my first ever urge to sheer a sheep bald. I asked Mary, before we left, to not engage with Ann as a little unless I said it was okay, and that remark was borderline. Not that I was primed by o, say, jealousy to interpret pretty much any words Mary said to Ann as borderline bordering on over the line because I don’t have those kinds of petty thoughts and feelings. Nope, don’t have them, just like I don’t cover for insecurity by making the kinda jokes I really shouldn’t make in front of new acquaintances like, o, say, “Mary’s the Big Bad Wolf. She’s always trying to eat me.” Good thing I’m not the kind of person who lives in the past or I’d regret that and write it down I my diary. But the weirdest thing happened. Jo said, “That must make you Little Red Riding Hood.” I would’ve been quite offended if I imagined even for a moment she intended any innuendo in that (little on the button for my taste … get it?). I was more bothered by the fact that I didn’t get so much as a smile out of her. Well, not a ‘haha’ smile; I got this how-cute-you-are smile. What the heck? I heccin am not! Hmmph! “She went as Little Red Riding Hood once,” Mary chimed in instead of sending me one of her watch-yourself-young-lady signals. What the heccin hey! Not that I was acting up to try to shape the conversation in ways I am more familiar and comfortable with so as to gain a sense of control, but, you know, that was my backup plan. “I went as the huntress. Someone’s gotta protect my Daffodil.” And then she kissed me. For a second there, I thought they were having some kind of dominance game where they each take turns saying affectionate things and kissing us until someone (and it so totally would’ve been Mary!) establishes their submissive is the best and they love them most and that was Mary’s opening move. But nope. She was just making conversation. She continued, because you know how my Mary loves to continue (and if you can’t tell by now, perverts who have somehow gained access to my diary, that means she’s got a big mouth sometimes), “Isn’t that the year you ate too much candy and I had to spank your bare bottom in the corner and put you in timeout? No, wait, that’s every year.” Such a butt face. “Ann told me all about the spanking you gave Daphne at that event.” “She needed a hard spanking. Embarrassment shouldn’t be a punishment,” which is a string of sounds Mary makes when she’s lying cuz she definitely has zero qualms about using embarrassment as a punishment, “but she needed a spanking then and there. If that was embarrassing for her, then I hope that helps her remember to make better choices.” I wasn’t blushing; you were, and you weren’t even there! “I don’t know,” Jo replied, “I think a little embarrassment is fine as a punishment.” “Tell us about some of the embarrassing things you’ve done to Ann,” I interjected like a brat (like a brat, because a brat I am not) wanting someone else to squirm for once. “Daffy, be nice,” Mary scolded me. Can you believe that? She scolded me. Me! Hello, paragon over here. The paragon of … stuff. And things. Hello! Hello? Dammit… “Once when we were at her parent’s house, I put her in timeout in her old bedroom.” “Big deal. Mary spanked me in my childhood bedroom.” Ha! One-upped her. Why the heck am I bragging about that? “But did Mary tell everyone where you were and why,” Ann asked. Who does she think she is one-upping me? It’s not a competition. Also, as long as we’re letting fantasy be more fun than reality, that sounds so delightful but must’ve been so awful! “I feel like we know a lot more about Mary than about you,” Jo said. Cuz Mary was way more excited about this and had been texting with Jo to arrange it for a while. “Um, what do you wanna know?” “Anything you want to share.” “Well, uh … I guess firstly, all the things Mary told you about me are false, except the endearing parts. Those are true.” I said that in the safety of an agreement Mary and me had that I could say anything I wanted without repercussions during this visit, said agreement being a (non) binding contract that I didn’t tell Mary she’d agreed to. But I hoped for the best … and stuff. “Everything she said about you is endearing,” Jo replied. “All she does is brag about how lucky she is. Not that I’m not even luckier,” she said as she guided Ann onto her lap. Jo is earnest, a trait I like in people, but I didn’t much care for what Jo said. First of all, I’d made yet another joke she didn’t laugh at. I’m not saying it was a gem – they can’t all be diamonds, people! – but it’s widely known that I’m funny. You might even say it’s a skill I cultivated as a means of fitting in (which wouldn’t be true, but also, yes). I make jokes; people laugh or least chuckle or smile; that’s how I know I fit in and gain a sense of control. When people don’t laugh, it throws my whole game off. Random aside, that thing about how some subs have a need to be in control so much that they crave surrendering all that control and more to the right person is just a bunch of very true pseudo-psychology for some of us. Anyhoo … What Jo said was kinda sorta a comment on how Mary feels about me. Know who I need to tell me about how Mary feels about me? No one except Mary. It seemed kinda overly familiar. Not that I was primed to feel that way. Really? And I felt no competitive desire for Mary to guide me onto her lap just because Jo did that with Ann, and if you hear otherwise, politely correct that person. Be a bringer of truth and light. That’s what I always say and teach the world through my paradigmatic example. True story. Mary, meanwhile, was holding my hand and smiling at me – literally all I ever need from her but it sure is nice when she says sweet things to me too. So nice. As a group we seemed to be perilously close to an awkward pause event horizon when Ann whispered something in Jo’s ear. Jo whispered something back. Ann whispered in reply. So that’s plus two people in the world who are better at whispering than me (and so far zero people who are worse, that I know of; I confide this secret only to my diary lest the other paragons – and there aren’t many – learn of this flaw and not let me sit with them at lunch anymore … actually, Mary – the paragoniest of all the paragons – would either convince them … or make them … parentheticals aren’t supposed to be this long and I also don’t go off on tangents ever, so … overly aggressive use of ellipses …). Anyhoo, to her third whisper, Ann added a you-can’t-say-no-to-this-face face (mine is better, not that I ever stoop to that level except when I want something). Jo responded with a I-can’t-say-no-to-that-face face (Mary’s is better, though I think we’re both kidding ourselves when she makes that face cuz she’s quite adept at saying no to me). Jo nodded and patted Ann’s thigh. Ann turned her face into the space between Jo’s arm and body, something I’ve been known to do when I need a moment alone to pretend that others aren’t watching me or when I need a quiet place to process whatever wonderful or horrible or wonderfully horrible thing Mary just said or did to me or is about to do. I’ve also seen a Jane do it as she slips into little space. I think a Ann was doing both. Jo turned back to us and asked, “Is it okay if I change Ann into her play clothes?” Mary glanced at me to make sure I wasn’t scandalized by the idea and said, “Fine by us.” As she said it, I realized it wasn’t clear what she meant by “play.” BDSM and all that, she could’ve meant changing into lord only knows what, not that we’d necessarily disapprove but we’d only just met them. Or it could’ve meant an ageplayers play outfit, as in an outfit for finger painting or sandboxes. Jo cleared it up in an apologetic way. “I know we didn’t want to turn this into a play date since it’s our first time meeting in person, and I don’t mean that we are. It’s just that Annie couldn’t keep her pull-up dry, and she needs a break from grown up space. A whole Sunday morning being a grown up is lot for her.” I couldn’t tell if she was saying that tease Ann or telling the truth or both. “I understand,” Mary said like a crazy person or fibber or crazy fibber. “No, you don’t,” I reminded her. How could she? No such person similar to Ann lives with Mary. Of course, Mary has virtually no sense of shame, so she didn’t even blush. And I am very polite and wasn’t bothered by Ann changing into something else and didn’t want my riposte to be taken the wrong way, so I quickly added, “But it’s okay.” “We’ll be right back down.” “Take your time.” Ann, like an over excited you know what, popped off Jo’s lap and scurried upstairs as Jo followed behind chuckling. Mary leaned over to see if she could see upstairs; she couldn’t, and we couldn’t hear a door close, so we kept our voices down. “How you doing,” Mary asked me. “Fine … What do you think of them?” “I like them. They seem very nice. Jo is very welcoming.” “A little familiar.” Oops; I was honest. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.” O good, I wasn’t the only person who thought so. “I think she’s just very warm person, and from what she knows of you …” She trailed off, probably (definitely) because what she really meant was … “You mean what you told her about me.” “And what Ann told her.” “You didn’t exactly try to dispel the notion that Ann and I are both littles in your secret text chain … Meanie.” “You’re not mad.” “Who said I was? Meanie …” “My point is she’s not being familiar so much as …” “Affectionate in a way that’s kinda weird for someone you just met … unless your wife made you sound like a little.” In which case it’s not weird because are affectionate with people actually of that play age all the time. “I saw the way you blushed when Ann said Jo told her family she was in a timeout. You like them.” “I didn’t say I didn’t … Also, we have to be more affectionate with each other than they are when they come back because reasons.” “Are we proving a point or something,” Mary very reasonably asked. I should know because I’m so reasonable and stuff. Really. “Yes, but I don’t know what it is.” Very reasonable. People say that about me all the time. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘I’m sure she has her reasons, whatever they are.’ Yep, that’s a thing people say about me. If they were as reasonable as I am, they’d probably understand my reasons. I pity them sometimes, but I’m too polite to let them know I feel that way. Poor little dears. “Might get embarrassing for you,” Mary hinted as subtly as a devil imp poking me with a pitchfork and throwing fireballs at all the flammable things as it dances and cackles in merry glee. “Be nice to me. I’m the shortest person here … And don’t say it. We both know it; you don’t have to say it.” “You’re the shortest person in most of the places we go.” “And she said it anyway,” I grumbled. See? See what she makes me do. Breaking the fourth wall like there’s someone in the room other than her that I’m talking to. “Meanie.” “Did I tell you you’re extra cute today?” “More.” All the compliments please. I like them more from Mary than anyone else. “And that you’re being a very good girl?” O MY GAWD SHE SAID IT SHE SAID IT SHE SAID IT! Play it cool, Daff; just play it cool. “A very, very good girl, by chance?” “Well, a very good girl.” “I’ll accept that for now, but I expect more when we get home.” I sipped my tea. “This is cloying.” “Wow. You saying that …” “I know … But also no cuz I have a very normal relationship to sugar.” “Of course you do. You’re a paragon and stuff.” That’s what I get for using that word out loud while trying to get out of … something. “Bite me.” “Where?” Can you believe she said that!?! In a stranger’s house? Inappropriate. Can’t take her anywhere but I do anyway cuz she’s fun to be with and stuff. True story. “Sorry, sorry,” Jo apologized as they came back down the stairs. “Took a little longer than I thought. We’re still learning about holding still during changes and that not all naked time is play time. Had to wrestle her into that onesie.” The proper response from Ann would’ve been to freeze, blush, and pout, but if she was in a proper frame of mind she would’ve resisted being seen that way rather than asking to be changed into that outfit. Not to yuck anybody’s yum or project my feelings … and things. And if you hear anyone say I was in any way jealous of how happy Ann looked as she bounced across the room and hopped playfully onto the loveseat, correct them by slapping them across the face as hard as you can. She looked as happy as a puppy making new friends, not that I’ve ever been jealous of how happy a puppy is (but aren’t we all?). “Giving up on the potty for the day,” Mary asked. Just guessing, but I think she was referring to the very thick diaper Ann was wearing under her onesie. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint, right,” Jo said as she sat down and pulled Ann into her lap. She tickled Ann, making her giggle from behind the pacifier in her lips like, well, exactly what she looked like. She was in a cloth diaper (several, actually) with clear plastic panties. Her onesie didn’t cover it; in fact, the onesie covered about as much of her butt as it didn’t. She was still wearing her shoes; definitely a toddler vibe to that outfit. Jo said, “They say cloth diapers help them feel wet so they train earlier, but every little girl is different, aren’t they sweetie?” Ann nodded. “Go get your brush for me.” Ann bounced off her lap and toddled away with a butt pat from Jo. “What’d she do,” I asked. I guess I sounded confused because Jo got my meaning, answering as Ann thundered back down the stairs, “It’s not her spanking brush.” To Ann, she added, “But it will be if you run down the stairs again.” Ann did not seem intimidated by that and sat down on the floor in front of Jo. Her straining onesie left whoever chose to look a fine view of the diaper between her legs. Jo took the band out of Ann’s hair and started to comb it out. “Daphne grew her hair out during the pandemic for a while. I miss brushing it.” “I’ll grow it back if you want.” “It’s your hair.” Mary apparently didn’t take my directive to out-affection them seriously because I had to put myself in her lap. “And I liked that too. I’ll grow it long if you promise to promise to brush it before bed.” “Promise. That’ll make a hairbrush part of your bedtime routine with you sitting on your bottom for once. We’ll need some time to get use to that.” And then she kissed me right on the neck with her arms around my middle and stuff. Take that, Ann, who’s barely spoken and I’m competing against but not competing against and I don’t even know what the prize is! “You must be a vixen with that red hair grown out,” Jo commented. She started braiding Ann’s hair. I very much liked Mary combing out my hair and braiding it; I just got tired of taking care of it. But if Mary would take on that responsibility, preferably with me sitting between her legs so close I can feel her breath on the back of my neck, I’d do it … for her sake, of course. Of course. And because reasons. Ann sure did seem to be enjoying Jo’s fingers in her hair, an impression I gathered from the dreamy expression on her face, an impression I would never have been disabused if that onesie did a better job hiding what was under and if my hearing wasn’t so sharp. I mean, sometimes I can hear myself wetting a diaper (a direct consequence of Mary being such a tyrant cuz I only do it cuz she makes me), but I’m right there (obviously) when I’m doing it. But Ann was a good six feet away and sounded like the water dispenser on our fridge was between her legs. “O Annie,” Jo admonished, but not really, “I just asked you if you needed to use the potty before I put your diapers on you. Why didn’t you go then?” “I didn’t have to then,” Ann transparently lied. Transparent as in the sound made it obvious she was definitely holding it for a while and transparent as in her clear plastic panties showed she soaked her diapers. Two years and then some into Mary-instigated diaper play and I’d yet to see anyone so openly wet themselves. It didn’t squick me out (thanks for helping me stay normal, Mary – NOT!) or uncomfortable, but it was definitely … something. I don’t know. I didn’t think anything of it one way or the other; I just felt like I should. I mean, it’s not like she did it on the floor. God help me, but that’s what diapers are for (Mary, this is all your fault). “What am I gonna do with you?” Ann looked over her shoulder at Jo and made a downright libidinous face like surely the two of them would think of something Jo could do with her. Jo chuckled and said to Mary, “It’s awfully hard potty training these little girls when they say it’s almost as good as an orgasm to let go in their pants.” So Ann does know how to blush. And for the record, Jo’s comment was about as shameless as Ann flooding herself like that seated on the floor with her diaper basically on display. Which is also something I didn’t think anything of (Mary, you’ve ruined me). “Do you ever feel that way, Daffy,” Mary asked. O goodie; glad we could establish who blushes hardest. #DaphneWinsAgain “Marrrry!” I bet all the money in my purse (a crumpled single and some loose change) that Mary was turned on by Ann’s display. Probably even more turned on because the display wasn’t for us. Ann would’ve done that whether we were there or not, a true little, not an exhibitionist. As for how I felt? Not bothered by what Jo said or Ann did, but Mary’s question … Such is the torture of the humiliation fetish. “Daphne and diapers have a complicated relationship,” Mary opted to explain despite no one having asked. Grr. “It says so right in the relationship status on the Facebook page I made.” She didn’t really. She knows I’d bite. “Not Annie. Sometimes I think we’re in a polycule with diapers as the third partner. I was skeptical at first, but once I realized my girl is just a high-functioning toddler, I knew I’d be changing diapers forever. Not that we don’t keep trying to potty train, but little Annie works so hard to keep her undies clean and dry when she’s pretending to be a big girl at work, she has no control at all as soon as the workday is over … Or so she says. The seat of her cozy coupe has seen some real trauma during those commutes home. Now she wears pull-ups to work; amazing how the little control they have slips even more as soon as they’re in something absorbent. I have to pack extra in her backpack.” “I don’t wanna wear pull-ups to work but Mommy says I have to,” Ann said. “You should’ve seen the tantrum and tears when I put my foot down about wearing them to the gym too. But Mommy was right, wasn’t she? None of the other girls make fun of you in the changing room, do they?” “No.” “See, Daffy?” “No. No, I don’t.” I see nothing. Mary ony asked to embarrass me. Cuz she’s mean and knows I like being teased, especially in front of company. Mean and very sweet and nice to me. “I can’t imagine this one throwing a tantrum,” Mary chose to say instead of explaining herself, probably because she had no explanation (because there isn’t one). “Sweet as can be and an angel most of the time, but plenty rambunctious, and she can definitely have her moments. All done; stand up for me.” I assumed at that time Ann could stand up; I’d only seen her bounce up. Jo chose the right word, rambunctious. It seemed like from the moment Jo okayed her going into little space, she had an excess of energy (must be nice). “That’s a soggy bottom you got there.” “Heehee! No, it isn’t.” “It isn’t? That’s not a soggy diaper I feel?” When Mary checks one of her diapers (that I by cruel fate happen to be wearing) in the same very hands on manner as Jo, I make funny noises. Just sayin’. “Then you must not need a change yet,” Jo said. She gave Ann some playful swats on her butt. “Good thing I put such thick diapers on you. Little trick for parenting these little rascals – the sooner you put them in thicker diapers and allow yourself to not feel like a bad mommy for letting them stay soggy for so long, the less often you have to chase them down for a diaper change. But even still we have a couple of disagreements a week about when a diaper needs changed. Good thing you’re so cute when you stomp your little feet.” “You always wanna change ‘em right after I get ‘em just the way I like ‘em.” “You know what I think Daphne would like,” Jo asked Ann. Bookmakers the world over had the odds a billion to one Jo was in the same universe as whatever I would like. “I think she’d like to see your nursery. You wanna go show her?” “Yeah. C’mon.” She didn’t wait for me. She popped up again like a prosecco cork and scampered up the stairs like you’d expect a little to. “Go on,” Mary said. “I’ll be up in a minute.” O…kay.

You’d look so cute blushing and trying to keep from clapping and bouncing up and down ☺️

I love this story! I wish there were more authors on DD who blend spanking and diapers this much and this well. Thanks for sharing your talent!

Sorry I've been kinda slow to post lately. I've been busy at work and getting ready for a vacation, which made me even busier at work ?‍♀️ _____________________________________ Scene #188 I Want. My. Mary. Fortunately, I remembered to get one and keep her on hand pretty much all the times. She was in our bedroom reading cuz she says she can’t concentrate when I’m playing my virtual murder games (her words). I don’t exactly mind cuz she can be very unreasonable about the language I use when I play. I tell her it’s part of the game, but she says little girls don’t use words and phrases like butt munch, snot muffin, and chumble spuz. Seems like a red herring cuz only adults live in our house, but Mary brings it up anyway. I trudged up the stairs, made a right, plodded down the hallway, made a left into the master bedroom (it’s where my master sleeps all wrapped around me and stuff), spotted Mary sitting in the wing chair (so she actually does sit in it even when I’m not across her knee. Who knew?), and bullied her over so I could wedge myself between the arm and Mary. “Why the long face?” “You’re being too tall again,” I answered. “Sorry,” she said with a verbal eye roll as she scooted herself down in the chair so her shoulder was just the right height for me to rest my head on. “Did you lose your game?” “I quit part way.” She closed her book, which made that satisfying book-closing sound (who doesn’t love that sound?), and asked me, “What happened?” “This person was being mean to me.” “What’d they say?” “I don’t wanna repeat it.” “Did they call you a name?” “Yeah, but that’s not it.” “Then what?” “I don’t wanna say.” “How am I supposed to help my Daffodil if you don’t tell me?” Sheesh. She is so earnest sometimes. Can a person be earnestly earnest? Mary can, but she’s exceptional in all the ways. She’s also one of the all-time greats at seeming earnest when she’s being the very, very opposite, like when she’s telling me why I’m in trouble for doing non-troubling things or telling me little girls don’t call other gamers things like gravy salesman. “They said something really ugly,” I said. “You know it was probably just some stupid kid.” “Yeah.” “How about you just whisper it to me? It might make you feel better to say it, like you’re pushing it away.” It was a very ugly thing to say. Who the hell is raising (or raised) these people? And it may not have been a kid; coulda been a grown ass adult, not that it even matters. I looked at Mary and she was making her soft, you-can-do-tell-me-anything eyes. I’m a sucker for those eyes. And maybe there’s something to her pushing-it-away theory. I whispered it to her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mary look so … frighteningly calm. She squeezed me tight, kissed my temple, and said, “I’ll be right back.” Like, huh what? She stood up and calmly left the room. She’s not a big fan of video games. It’s like the six years between us puts us on opposite sides of the adults-who-game divide. She might not mind so much if I played casual games, but I like RPGs and FPSs. I didn’t play online multiplayer very much before I stopped working (what working adult has the time to play enough that they don’t get destroyed by middle schoolers who need more homework and less screen time?). I play a little more now. Online gaming isn’t nearly as ugly as the media makes it out to be, but it does have its outsized share of oversized assholes. If Mary had her druthers (first time using that word – woohoo!), she’d take away all my games and replace them with My Little Pony Naps Quietly (Rated E for Everyone), Waiting for the Drier to Ding Simulator (Rated B for Boring People), and Your TV Isn’t Frozen It Only Looks that Way (Rated N for No One). Or she’d get rid of the whole console. It dawned on me that’s what Mary may have been doing so I went downstairs to put a stop to that, if that’s what she was doing. Instead, I found Mary wearing my headset. I’ll try my best to recreate what she said. (Sound of me clearing my throat for some reason before I type): “Alright, you bleeping bleepers. What the bleep is your motherbleeping problem? Buncha bleeping bleepereses who couldn’t get bleeped in a bleephouse living bleep lives because bleep your bleeping cousin-bleeper ancestors bleeped their bleep in the bleeping puddle that is the motherbleeping gene pool you bleeping spawned in. You wouldn’t be so bleeping brave if you weren’t sitting on your bleeps bleeping your bleep in your parents’ bleeping basements like sun-starved bleeped bleepers between your bleeping shifts scrubbing bleep off the bathroom walls at bleeping McDonald’s. If you bleeps EVER bleeping talk that way to my little girl again, I’ll bleeping find you, tie your bleeps to a bleep like it’s a bleeping hat and bleeping watch you bleep slow on your own bleep.” “Mary,” tried to interject. It seemed interjecting was the wise thing to do; at least, I guessed because I’m usually the unhinged one (in a much cuter and less this-could-be-a-the-cold-open-of-a-CSI-episode way), and of course even then I’m never unhinged because I’m the very poster picture of poise and equanimity. Really. “ … and it bleeping won’t be in your motherbleeping sleep, motherbleepers…” “Mary?” “… with a bleeping hole where it used to bleeping be …” “Mary?” “ … until your bleep bleeps a bleep in bleeping bleep with the other bleeping bleepers …” “Um, Mary?” Like, maybe it was a bad time for her to talk or something? “ … your bleeping mothers will wear your bleep as a remembrance of the bleeping day they bleeped you out into your short, meaningless bleeping existence, you bleeping bleepfaces …” “M-Mary?” “ … better bleeping dox your bleeping selves before I get there cuz you’ll bleeping need the bleeping Musketeers to come bleeping save your motherbleeping bleep before I bleep your …” “Mar-Mary?” “… bleeping like bleeping mistletoe hung with bleeping care at the last bleeping Christmas you’ll ever bleeping see …” “A-ha-hem?” “ … bleeping inside out! Do you bleeping read me, motherbleepers? Inside bleeping out!” “H-hey, Mary?” “Bleep!” “Mary!?” She closed her hand around the mic, turned to me like the world was totally normal and she wasn’t invoking ancient bane deities in our living room (free tip – always invoke ancient bane deities out of doors, or at least lay down some newspaper first), and said, “Yeah, sweetie, what’s up?” So … that was unsettling. “It’s turned off.” She kinda did a double take like she was just then coming to grips with what a screensaver means. And yet, ladies and men (mostly men, buncha pervs), she has a big important job in technology somehow? She sighed, took off my headset, and practically bounded across the room to throw her arms around me like an impatient anaconda. “Um, are you alright?” No particular reason I asked, though I had very many questions about how far below the surface of her mind such vivid imagery resides and what medications will keep it locked away there forevermore. “I don’t like it when people are mean to you,” she said in a crying-a-little voice I recognized very well cuz it’s usually coming from me. Not my fault. My feelings got hurt; Mary briefly became someone the great Beelzebub his self would tell to take it down a couple notches; and then she got teary. Mary getting teary is enough for me to get weepy. We both have a role to play, and I’ll be bleeped before she out-cries me. Not my fault I got weepy. “Let it all out,” she said because she apparently thought my feelings were so much more wounded than they were. Mary was clearly way more upset about it than me. It’s a crappy part of gaming culture, and while it bothered me, it didn’t do to me whatever it did to Mary. No, what got me going was the way the whole thing reminded me. “You really love me more than anything.” “Of course I love you more than anything.” And she kissed my hair. Like, how can girl be expected to keep her knees from wobbling when her white knight violence goblin curses bleeping bleeps to bleeping bleep their bleep up both of their grandmothers’ bleeps and bleeps? (Okay; I made that one up, but the rest were all true.) “You’re kinda terrifying.” “I’ll keep you safe.” Pretty sure she thought I was making room for a dramatic silence, but what really happened is my brain circuits blew and the brain manager had to do a hard restart. Mary being Mary waited the appropriate three seconds before saying in nothing but seriousness, “If I ever hear you use those words, I’ll wash your mouth out and spank your bare tushy. Do you hear me, little girl?” “Yes’m.” Far be it from me to respond less than submissively and respectfully to such a frightening personage. Frightening in a way that turns me on a little, if only in the context of verbally terrorizing a powered-off gaming console on my behalf. “Go get your shoesies.” “Where are we going?” “The cupcake store. My little girl deserves a treat just for being who she is.” Remember in The Fellowship of the Ring when Gandalf gets really scary before making his kindly-old-basset-hound face and saying, ‘I’m trying to help you [you sweet widdle hobbity wobbit]’? That’s (apparently) who I live with. That’s who married me cuz she loves me most out of all the things there are and I love her back just as much and twice over. And the bleeps had better watch out cuz she’s a little unhinged when it comes to me, all to keep me safe (cuz she loves me). Sigh … Also, I’m never telling her what other gamers say again cuz I like her so much that I don’t wanna risk a götterdämmerung harangue like that going viral in the distressing-to-think-about event the console is on next time. Mary is most enjoyable when she’s employed and not a defendant in any proceedings. True story.

Welcome!

Scene #187 Childhood, work, and lifestyle discipline marriages have something in common: rules that get made and even rules that get made and then rigidly enforced very often stop getting enforced until even the person who made the rule forgets there ever was one. Like the rule about bedtime. Mary never made me have a bedtime until I quit my job. It part of her whole you-will-not-live-like-teen-on-permanent-summer-vacation-staying-up-til-three-and-sleeping-in-til-noon thing. I can’t deny the logic of it because that’s very much a thing I would do despite know it’s unhealthy and would make it harder to go back to work (which was the plan at the time) and school (which was the plan later). Something also about how it put me in a foul mood, but she might have meant fowl mood cuz she said I was being an irritable goose one time. I don’t think geese are irritable; that’s just their normal, and Mary shouldn’t project human standards of behavior onto geese or geese behaviors onto me. But I was definitely irritable some days plus tired. Mary would wanna do something and I wouldn’t cuz I was tired, plus the crabbiness (which I now admit despite at the time redirecting Mary’s allegation to all the evidence of my equanimity and grace), plus it not being very healthy, I put up only a minor fuss about having a bedtime. I wasn’t so much opposed to going to bed at a certain time, but getting out of bed at a certain time is just so hateful to my soul. Which isn’t over dramatic; I have a very delicate soul. But Mary was right. But knowing she was right two years ago is not the same as agreeing she’s right this week when she noticed that at some point, we both stopped paying attention to the bedtime rule. Forgot about it, actually. And I don’t think it’s fair to equate noncompliance with a rule both of us forgot about to be rule breaking. That’s unconstitutional, I think, or should be. Problem being, 50% of the people who live in our house are 100% of the people who decide these things, and it’s not me. “I don’t need a bedtime,” I explained to Her Royal Tyranny. “It helped last time,” she unhelpfully pointed out. “Things were different then.” “This isn’t even a strict bedtime, Daffy. Ten o’clock on weekdays, midnight on weekends, or when I go to bed, whichever is later. You hardly ever stay up past that anyway.” Separate issue, how the hell is it that I’m usually too tired to stay up for Saturday Night Live, but my parents - who are twice my age - aren’t? What the hell happens in your thirties, and what the hell happens in your sixties? I demand linearity! Same universe making no sense and stuff… But to Mary, I only said, “It’s the principle of the thing.” “Daffy, it’s bedtime.” “No.” Did my whole body just shudder? Prancing right over that verbal Rubicon “Excuse me?” Yeah, Mary, you should excuse yourself! Not that ever a bajillion years would I ever cross that chasm and actually, ya know, say that or even think it too loudly. “Not until you debate the principle.” Yeah, justify yourself, lady! No more free rides! I’m not oppositional! You are! Really!… And stuff. Either she’s a sorceress (that’s the leading theory) who can fast forward time, or I blacked out. I was sitting on the couch; the coffee table was in front of me; I was wearing pants and underwear; … I wasn’t upside down. Short of sorcery or unconsciousness, how else to explain how I came to find myself holding on to Mary’s upside-down calf with her foot propped on the coffee table, wear no pants, wearing no panties, and – o yeah – heccin upside down over Mary’s knee and not able to describe the sequence of events that got me there?!? It’s very alarming. Really. I mean, awesome that she can manhandle me like that (another foot and I’m climb her like a tree), but very alarming. I hate being turned over her knee when she’s got it propped on something. Leaves me just dangling there with my hands and feet off the floor like I’m a … spanked thirty-something. Really. “You wanna debate the principle,” she said as she broke all of Robert’s Rules of Order, the first one of which is don’t slap your opponent’s butt. I say she said it because she wasn’t asking. Purely a rhetorical question. Mary, for all her superlatives, is not a good debater. If she couldn’t cut off debate by doing what she was doing, she’d have to rely on logic and argument, and here’s what she came up with: “I’ll principle you until you can’t sit for a week.” “What does that even mean!? Ow ow owowowowow ouch stopit!” “It’s been too long since you went to be with a sore butt.” SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK. She’s going to get tennis elbow one of these days. “Has not! Marrrrry! Stop!” “How’s this for a debate: you’re the subby little girl. I’m the one in charge. Little girls have bedtimes.” “I’mNotALittleGirl!” “Calm down, hold still, and listen (SMACK).” See, the woman has insufficient powers of logic. Would you calm down and hold still if you were getting stung by bees? Of course not! And we were past bee territory after the first sixty smacks. And where the heck does her energy come from!?! “You. Are. My. Little. Girl. And. If. I. Say. It’s. Bed. Time. Then. It’s Bed. Time.” “(Sniffle). Let me – ow! – go! I – shouldn’t – eep! – hafta – yipe!” Robert’s Rules of Order also say you need to let your opponent finish. My is no parliamentarian. “How are you still arguing with me?” “This is (snurfle) ridiculous!” “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous.” “Of course you will.” Well, that was probably the bravest and dumbest thing I’ve ever said. And here I thought that was as fast and hard as her hand could go. Check that off – ow! – as the new thing I – snooze muffin! – learned today. “What’s ridiculous is you telling me no. Are you allowed to just say no when I give you a rule or tell you to do something?” “No.” “What happens when you tell me no?” Is she still being rhetorical? SMACK “What happens if you disobey?” “I get in trouble oof ouch Mary!” “A little girls in trouble get their bare bottoms spanked and sent to bed with sore heinies.” “Mar-ar-rrry!” I hope her hand hurts tomorrow … No I don’t. I like her and stuff. “I can keep spanking your butt.” “I’ll go to bed! I wanna go to bed!” “Is that why you’re about to go to bed as soon as I let you down?” “No.” “Then why?” “Cuz you said!” “Because I am in charge of you. You, little girl, are not.” She punctuated that with a thunderspank to each cheek and set me back on my feet, whence I proceeded to hold my butt and do the Snoopy dance. It was very dignified, in case you hear rumors to the contrary. “I don’t know any big girls that hold their butts and do the spanky dance,” Mary who’s mean to me said. “In fact, I don’t any big girls who get bare bottom spankings turned over a knee with their big girl hands and feet struggling in midair.” Robert’s Rules of Order probably say something about being a sore winner, and so do I. “(Sniffle) Don’t be a sore winner,” I said in with my classic sniffle-mumble combo. She reached out, pulled me close, held me with one hand around my shoulder and one on my butt, and – rood much? – kissed me on the temple, squeezed my butt, and whispered, “I didn’t win, Daffodil, because it was never a contest.” And if she though that kissing me again would stop me from throwing a full-blown hissy fit, then she was right, is what she was. But it would’ve been very dignified. Really. “Do you have a bedtime,” she asked me. “Yes.” “When is it?” “When you say.” “Good girl.” Holy heckety heck she thinks I’m a good girl! Validation! That’s all I ever wanted, and I choose to think of it as sweet rather than pathetic, and more importantly, so does Mary. “I’m sorry.” “I know, baby. And you got your consequence and all’s forgiven. But don’t think I won’t your butt glow in the dark if bedtime becomes an issue.” “I know.” At least she didn’t make me cry. Got that going for me. “Besides, if you go to bed after me that means I don’t to spend as much time with you in my arms.” Welp, scratch that. Gonna cry. You don’t have to. Nope; gotta. But they don’t have to be big tears. Deal. “(Tiny sob). (Sound of watering eyes spilling over). (Pathetic mewl).” “O my goodness, where are these tears coming from?” Her thumb wiped aways the few tears. “(Snurfle).” “I think they’re coming from an overtired little girl. C’mon – let’s go wash your pretty face and put you to bed.” She took my hand and led me up the stairs, prompting me to ask, “Did you see where my pants went?” “No. We’ll find them tomorrow. You put up quite the struggle. Something you wanna talk about?” Yep, when resist a spanking, that’s a sign I need to emote. When I meekly accept it, all is well with world we’ve created for ourselves. Totally normal. Really. “No.” We were in the bathroom, and she wet a washcloth for me. “No, there’s nothing you wanna talk about, or no, there’s nothing you need to talk about? Look up for me.” She wiped the tear streaks away. “There’s my pretty girl.” “I’ll try to be a better submissive for you.” “Daphne Ann,” Mary said all serious like (like seriously? Yeah, for serious), “you are the very best submissive there is. Needing a reminder who’s in charge doesn’t change that.” She handed me the washcloth. “Honk.” “I never honk. (HONK!) (tiny honk).” “All done. Got put that in the hamper and pick out a sleepy time diaper when I use the potty.” “Um, what if you did that and I peed first?” Asking for a friend who had to pee. “You don’t need the potty.” “Um, I do, though.” “My submissive little girl,” Mary said, slowly enunciating the words, “doesn’t need the potty tonight. Go pick out some huggies, and I’ll be right out to diaper you for bed. You can piddle a puddle in your pampers as soon as the last tape is closed.” “But …” “Go be my good girl who obeys.” “O-okay.” Yeah, I’m gonna sleep great with all these conflicted feels. Dammit.

Scene #186 I’m not a little girl. Really. I’m just a woman married to a woman. A woman who gave me two dollars and sent me to the store, ostensibly because I needed some fresh air and exercise (pretty rich coming from Mary the Desk Pilot). Not that I was complaining cuz she told me I could have a peanut butter pumpkin so long as I walked to the store to get it. But just the one, so she gave me two dollars from her purse (almost like she doesn’t trust me to follow the rules about peanut butter pumpkins because – get this – for some reason she doesn’t trust me to follow the rules about peanut butter in any shape, as though I have a well-earned reputation for deceit, but I like to think of it as guile), and sent me on my way with a smack to my butt and kiss to my mouth. I really did kiss a girl, and I heccin liked it. True story. The peanut butter pumpkin never made it home of course. It made it from the checkout to … I wanna say the crosswalk, but that would be a lie, and I am a paragon of truth. Unlike President Washington, I really did (try to) chop down a cherry tree and confessed immediately upon being asked (I was six and confused about the moral of that story). Anyhoo, the pumpkin didn’t even make it across the parking lot. When I got home, there was Mary in the kitchen looking domestically scrumptious. She was stirring something (she’s always stirring pots and swinging spoons like it’s a hobby or – get this – a fetish; how weird!), and she bade me come close. For her I am ever so biddable, plus I like her and stuff. You know what she did? She gave me another kiss. A good one. “You taste like peanut butter,” she told me. “Flattery will get you all the places with me … You should eat more peanut butter.” She rolled her eyes so subtly, I almost didn’t notice. “Why not just spread some on me,” she ask sarcastically, but from sarcasm comes some of the best ideas ever. Pre-sliced bread, for instance, was invented when someone rolled their eyes and said, ‘why don’t we just slice it for them too?’ Really. “You joke, but that’s a very good idea.” “Like puppy play?” “I’m not a puppy. But you do make a nummy treat. Thank you for my pumpkin.” She even let me keep the change, which I added to the change jar. “Can I taste?” “I’m making dinner,” Mary said like I’m a singleminded pervert or something. Now whose turn is it to roll their eyes? Mine. That’s whose turn it was. “I meant dinner, you silly … alpha goose.” “Such a sass mouth. It’s the sugar that does it.” She dipped the spoon into the pot, blew on it for me (cuz she loves and stuff), and held it out for me to taste. But first I said, “Blame me, not the sugar.” Because I don’t cotton to heresy. Then I tasted it. “Mmmm. Yummers.” “You always make up new words when you get a little hyper.” “I think you wanna blame peanut butter for things. Is that because you love me so much you don’t want to face my flaws? Not that I have any, but, ya know, theoretically … Even though I transcend theory … Whatever that means.” “Your bottom knows the answer to that.” That’s actually what she said to me. She’s the sass mouth. Her! Mary! “What’s that mean?” “That’s I’ve never spanked peanut butter, but I’ve spanked you bare little bottom more times than I can count.” “Yeah, but cuz you love me, right?” “So much. Come stand next to me.” “Why,” I asked as shuffled over to stand next to her. “So I can put my arm around you while I stir the mushrooms.” “Awww. You’re being a softy today.” “I am. I really am.” Know how banks have silent alarms? Mary’s use of ‘really’ in that context tripped mine, and the little teller in my head just kept smiling like everything was normal and she had not tripped any alarm and no need to get violent just take the money and go with the almighty’s blessing. “… In what … other ways are you being a softy today?” Of course, it didn’t hafta to be something bad. It could be that she bought me a present. Maybe she decided we should go on another trip. Maybe stuff … Or things. “Jo texted me again, and we set a date. Ran out of excuses.” “Jo as in Ann’s partner?” Ann as in the woman we met at a play party, a little and spanko who had kindly packed our things for us as Mary and me were giving each other some after care? Jo and Ann as in the Jo and Ann who had invited us to go to their home and we said yes but really Mary said yes and I said meh and Mary said yes and I said okay but not now and then we all forgot about it but not entirely and apparently Jo and/or Ann had reached out again and Mary said yes and agreed to a date and time because we had allegedly run out of excuses? I know we’re married and everything, but ‘ran out of excuses’ is not a we problem. That’s a Mary problem. Mary may have run out of excuses, but years of practice trying to stay out of trouble have made me friggin’ the best at coming up with excuses. Random for instance, ‘love to, but can’t; our bird is sick.’ Bam! Literally just came up with that on the friggin’ spot! Tall brunette person with her arm around me talking nonsense about running out of excuses mumble mutter murmur mumble. “Marrry!” “We’ll talk about it after dinner.” “Are you gonna do that thing when you use physical pleasure to keep me quiet and pliant while you tell me how it’s gonna be and reassure me it’ll be fine.” “Yeah, of course.” “Fibber … And you had better.” Mary took the hint, not that I was at all subtle about it … nor basically telling her I was miffed and she owed me if she wanted me to go along … nor that the very prospect of playing with new people had me so anxious I needed to be physically calmed down. Really. So, after dinner – which, let’s acknowledge, I ate very much of despite having snarfed a peanut butter pumpkin shortly before, which I bring up only to counter all those people who ever thought I would spoil my dinner as though I can’t eat like a slender, very feminine, totally calm, hungry hungry hippo – Mary got out the big waterproof pad (always a sign of fun times ahead, except in certain circumstances I don’t wish to talk about), and laid it on our bed. I knew where that was going, so I took the liberty of stripping to my birthday suit while she went to find the massage oil under the bathroom counter. As an aside, I don’t know why people call it a birthday suit; that implies nakedness is only for special occasions, but being naked is great pretty much all the times. I was face down on that pad when Mary climbed onto the bed and climbed over me. Little ol’ me, right between her naked thighs. You might think having a naked masseuse is likewise only for special occasions, but ask your masseuse to straddle you during your session and you will hear, among other reasons they will decline, them say they don’t want to get massage oil on their clothes. “Why did you say yes,” I asked as she poured a small pool of oil in the small of my back. She snapped the lid closed and started spreading it up and down, side to side. “Why did you say ‘not yet’ every time I suggested a date?” “Reasons. Good ones.” “Like the way you tend to resent new people coming into our lives?” “Yes.” Ever since I was a kid, I’ve never liked a new person being added to my group of friends. I had my group; I liked my group; what did we need a new person for? A person who might change the group’s dynamic or take away from my time with my friends, basically meaning their attention would be on someone who wasn’t me. But I would get over it. It’s just that, despite knowing better, I would rather not deal with it at all than get over it. “You have a big knot here. Tell me if it hurts too much.” My muscles and connective tissue don’t like me. There’s always a knot somewhere, and getting it to relax often requires a lacrosse ball, a masseuse, or a lesbian leaning on it with her elbow. “Any other reasons?” “I’m shy and awkward and embarrassed about being shy and awkward.” “Are you as shy as you used to be?” “No.” “And you were never as awkward as you thought. Besides, some people like shy, awkward girls are cute.” Yeah, the one rubbing oily hands on me sure likes that mode on me. Sometimes she decides she wants to help me be less shy; other times she tells me it’s okay to hide behind her. Either way, she won’t let anything happen to me, which is oddly reassuring despite literally nothing ever having happened to me because I’m shy. Like, it’s caused literally no problems in my life and I can just not be shy when I need to. She’s not protecting me from anything; she’s just reassuring me, which I like a lot. “I just don’t like being the center of attention, and a new bottom is always the center of attention. That woman is going to focus all this energy on me, and you’re gonna wanna know more about Ann, and I’m going to hate both of those things.” I’ve already decided I’m going to hate both of those things. Especially the latter, not that I ever get jealous. Um, really. “I’m not expecting you to play with them. We’re just going to get to know them more. You haven’t even talked to Jo yet.” “O. That makes more sense.” “Did you really think I was just going to send you off to play with strangers?” “Why are we meeting at their house then?” “So we can all be more open about ourselves. They have a lifestyle relationship too. We know people who know them; they vouch for them.” Safety first. “Well, geez Mary, why didn’t you say so? You can tell me these things.” “We kept putting it off so long I just forgot about it. I’m surprised she texted me. I thought they’d given up on us. I would’ve.” “Wonder why they didn’t. It’s been months.” “Probably because they could use new friends, just like a little girl I know who’s been saying she needs more friends.” I do need more friends. Friends who are available during the day. All my friends work all day. I don’t have any impression of Jo, and my only impression of Ann is from when I was weeping on Mary’s lap not wanting anything to do with anyone who wasn’t my Mary. All I really know about is what I overheard during that conversation Mary had with Jo. “And it’s a coincidence this couple you wanna make friends with are ageplayers?” “It’s a coincidence that we Ann, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she approached us. Can I tell you a secret?” “You keep secrets from me?” “My secret is that I love Oily Daffy.” “She’s pretty fun.” “You’re like a slip-n-slide.” “So when did you say we’d meet them?” “Saturday after next. I think we’ll really like them. I get sense their lifestyle is a lot like ours.” “I do need more friends. Okay. Just don’t run out of excuses without giving me a chance to come up with some new ones.” She snickered at me. “I promise.” “Hey, as long as you’re up there and I’m all oiled up, how about smacking my butt for a while?” “And maybe my other hand could find another way to keep busy?” “I was just gonna suggest that.” “On one condition: afterwards, we wash the oil off each other.” “Twist my arm why don’t you.” Making new friends sometimes feels like one of those things that’s good for you, but you still don’t want to do it. All my reasons weren’t very good reasons, and I do need more friends. Having another kinky couple to be friends with would be nice, especially if Jo and Ann really do turn out to be more like us. Even if not, even if we just get along as vanillas, I really have been getting bored lately.

This made my morning ? Thank you!

Scene #185 “Mary, I’m back,” I announced as I dropped my keys on the kitchen table. I don’t usually announce myself by the Royal Herald has Sunday mornings off cuz I’m very benevolent and stuff. And there she was, Summer Sunday Mary, with the shorts and the long legs and the grubby tee shirt and messy hair and I kinda wanna wrestle with her in the grass and let her win. So there’s a new thing I learned about me. She came right up to me and gave me a kiss (which was nice; I liked it) and said, “Three Sundays outta four, I gotta swat your bottom to get you out of bed for church, but you decide you want a donut and you’re out the door.” “Yeah, cuz donuts.” Mary flipped open the box. “Where’s your chocolate twist?” “They only had one left.” “Why didn’t you get it? That’s your favorite.” “I don’t like taking the last one. Someone else might’ve wanted it.” “You’re someone else.” “But I don’t like taking the last of stuff.” “So your favorite donut is a chocolate twist, right?” “Mhmm.” “And you didn’t get one?” “Nope. “Because it was the last one?” “If I got it, someone else who wanted it would’ve been sad.” This is so totally logical; I don’t understand why Mary was confused. “Of all the ways you’re a silly goose, I love you the most for this one.” She loves me! She really loves me! I’ma tell everyone Mary loves me! “A little girl as nice as you,” Mary told me in preparation of telling what she had to tell me next, “deserves a present.” “I’m not so nice.” “Yes you are.” Yes, I am. I just deny compliments about of politeness, anxiety, and a desire to keep expectations manageable. “If it had been the last peanut butter pumpkin, which are available again at retailers near us, I’da told the next person to fuck the fuck off.” “I know, sweetie. I remember the time you almost bit me.” “Didn’t your parents teach you not to get between a sapphic and her food?” I didn’t mean to actually bite her. It was a warning snap, and for once her reaction time was slower than mine. It was a close call is all. But if I had bitten her, I’da let her bite me back … and stuff. “Hey Mary,” I asked with my I’ma-make-her-say-it grin plastered to my face, “if I’m so nice, does that mean I’m a good girl?” And Mary said back to me with her nice-try grin, “But you said you weren’t so nice.” “Only cuz I’m super modest and don’t take compliments well.” “Yes, it makes you a good girl.” Squee! “So I’m a good girl?” “Isn’t that what I just said.” “Not sure; didn’t hear you.” “You are a very good girl!” Squeeee! “So that makes it official and stuff?” “In every state except Delaware.” Delaware – so easy to incorporate there, so hard to be an official good girl. Anyhoo, during the pandemic, we really wanted to go back to church in person. We have friends there, and I like singing. I mean, sure, we could sing along at home, but we sound best when at least fifty people are singing around us. It’s not that we’re tone deaf, but yes, we are. It runs in the family. You should hear us sing Happy Birthday; it’s like we’re not even singing the same song despite us practicing multiple times a year. But after all the pandemic Sundays of Mary and my immunocompromised body watching zoom church in bed together, and it’s become another of our special times together. And yeah, sometimes Mary has to spank my butt awake (I think she underestimated it when she said three out of four Sundays; she does that on purpose sometimes cuz she likes being nice to me), and if you don’t pay attention to Pastor Sarah (who is the very embodiment of nonsectarian positivity and gayness), Mary gives you a for-real spanking as soon as zoom church is over. I don’t know how she knows when I’m not paying attention to zoom church; I’m usually sitting between her legs laying back against her while she rests her chin on my shoulder, so I don’t know how can tell (except the couple times I was snoring), but she’s never wrong. I was raised Catholic and stopped going to church when I still in high school (which was somehow a big deal in my Christmas-and-Easter-only family), then I started going again when I was home from college because it made my Grandma happy to have the whole family at Mass, and then I just stopped. I was pretty skeptical of the whole Unitarian Universalist thing (is it even church if the priest doesn’t think you’re going to hell for being gay?), but Mary and I were dating and she really wanted me to try it. I can’t remember if I ran out of excuses or decided it was worth it if it’d make her happy. Making Mary happy became goals for me very shortly into dating cuz I wanted to keep her around and was very insecure for a … person who is generally insecure. So I went with her one Sunday, and I didn’t know anyone else there and it’s not a big congregation and I didn’t understand what was going on, and of course my mind wandered. Mary saw me staring into space, leaned over, and whispered, “Hold my hand.” I like holding hands, and because I was still learning Mary’s tones and faces and body language, I thought, ‘how sweet; she wants to hold my hand during church.’ And then she stood and started walking toward the back with me in tow. Not a big congregation, like I said, so everybody knows everybody and I’m so obviously new and the person I learned is Pastor Sarah was preaching and conspicuous much? Yes, it was. Did Mary think she was wrong and I didn’t like it and so we were leaving? Had I embarrassed her? What she disappointed? Not that I was already insecure about our relationship and my chances of holding on to a Mary (the original and only!), but ugh. The door was a long walk for not a big building. Except we didn’t go out the door. Mary made a right in the narthex (turns out Unitarian Universalists just call it “the lobby”) and down a set of stairs. She took me past a multipurpose room (they really can be anything; that one was where brunch was gonna be; Mary didn’t tell me about the brunch part) and to another multipurpose room for the purpose of scolding me (see? they can be anything). She closed the door first, thank goodness, and said to me, “I know you aren’t enthusiastic about being here, but it’s still a worship service, and not paying attention is very bad manners.” This wasn’t like being scolded for leaving dishes in the sink. Had I offended her? She obviously took church much more seriously than I had understood, and I was freaking out inside that this was going to be the end of our relationship, which Mary couldn’t foresee cuz she didn’t yet know the entire extent of my approval-hunger and relationship insecurity. Even setting that aside though, relationships do end over religious differences. “I’m going to spank your bottom. Do you understand it’s for your manners and not because you don’t like church? … Daphne?” “Y-yes.” I was too busy catastrophizing in my head to appreciate what was happening. She sat down in a chair, drew me across her lap, and delivered ten hard (hard!) swats to the back my dress and set me on my feet again. If I had been logical about it (and I’m the queen of logic, as you all know; no nonsense from me ever), I would’ve realized that no one spanks their partner just before breaking up with them. Instead, I just stood there quietly, unable to even look at Mary, and rubbed my butt. “When you’re in a house of worship, doesn’t matter what faith, you need to be respectful, which means paying attention. Understood?” “Mhmm.” And then she hugged me. My being stiff as a board and not really hugging her back tipped her off that I was not okay. I think that set off her own alarm bells. We were past the point of negotiating scenes and I encouraged her to give me consequences whenever she thought I needed them (but had yet to fully hand over the disciplinary reins; that came much later), but her voice suddenly had this o-crap-did-I-go-too-far tone when she asked me, “Are you okay?” I nodded. “Mhmm.” “What’s wrong?” I sniffled first cuz I’m pathetic and stuff. Then I asked, “Are you mad at me?” “No. Of course not.” “Really?” “Yes, really. I’ve never been mad at you.” “So … we’re okay?” And that’s when Mary figured it out. She put her hands on my shoulders, bent her knees to look me right in the eyes, and said, “Look at me. We’re okay. We’re better than okay.” And then came the impact hug, so named because we both went for it at the same time and oof! My Mary is very solid, and did I ever mention I’m smaller than she is? Those inches make so much difference. I sniffled a snotty sniffle and felt relieved enough to let my guard down and expose just how insecure I was. “So you’re not breaking up with me?” “No. I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean for that.” I’m sure she was thinking to herself what a basket case I was. She hadn’t seen that part of me yet. I’m better now (what with the therapy, medication, and the teachings or Mary to guide me), and I’m not sure if Mary, with her caregiver instinct, was thinking, what a basket case; I’ma gonna have to think about this relationship or what a basket case; I wanna hold her forever. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” We let each other go, and I said, “We should go back upstairs,” even though what I really wanted to do was literally anything that didn’t involve walking back to our seats past all those people. “We don’t have to. We can leave, or we can just stay in here for a while.” “Really?” “Yeah. We can go, or we can stay for brunch. The service is almost over. I’d like to introduce you to some of my friends here, but we don’t have to. Just tell me what you want.” Real answer: I wanted to make her happy. “Even though I embarrassed you?” “Who said you embarrassed me? Are you embarrassed?” “Yeah.” Um, of course. “But maybe also a little nervous because I’m gonna introduce you to people and you feel like you have to make a good impression?” I nodded, feeling silly. I was a grown woman, and as embarrassed as I was by everything that had happened in the last ten minutes, I wasn’t any more nervous than I would’ve been in any other circumstance meeting new people. I don’t like being the center of attention, and I know nine times out of ten when you think you’re the center of attention you’re really not, but getting introduced to your girlfriend’s friends even one-on-one more attention-central than I like being. I’m better at being attention-adjacent. Mary told me, “We’ll stay side by side the whole time. You can even be shy and barely say anything.” Countless times in my life I’ve wondered why I couldn’t be normal when it comes to socializing and not need forty hours with a person until I feel comfortable with them, but I learned something: having Mary means I don’t have to be normal. She’s not normal either (like, not even close) but you wouldn’t know it to watch her vanilla socializing. Her friends were very nice, and Pastor Sarah was so disarming that I actually talked to her. I – and I’d never had this happen in a church before – had fun. When Pastor Sarah asked if she’d see me again, and I told her next week, I could feel Mary internally squeeing, and she’s not much of a squee-er. Only years later, about ten minutes before our appointment with Pastor Sarah for some pre-marriage counseling and to talk about our wedding ceremony, did Mary tell me Pastor Sarah knew I’d been spanked that day, and I only had a small stroke when, twelve minutes after that, Pastor Sarah told me how proud she is with my attentiveness and active participation on Sundays. It’s kinda a shame that Mary won’t ask if she’ll play with us. I mean, we know she’s kinky, but Mary has overruled my suggestion and says if I wanna get spanked by a kinky lesbian clergywoman I’ll just have to find another. Easier said than done. It’s amazing how church and brunch on a Sunday cuts through a morning. After brunch, we found ourselves back at Mary’s apartment, and I had Sunday chores to do. Mary wanted to do some more apologizing for freaking me out, so I did some more apologizing for not being respectful in services, and Mary told me to stop apologizing and I apologized for that, and then she told me some more about how proud she was to show me off and how everyone liked me. Even though being praised by Mary is literally my favorite thing, I really did need to go run some errands. Maybe it was the panic I was experiencing in that multipurpose room, but it wasn’t until my hand was on Mary’s doorknob that I realized, “O my god. You spanked me in public. In a church! For not paying attention to the sermon!” In public! Not play party public, but actual public. Not a discreet swat either, but over her knee! “Yeah,” Mary said nervously like she was having her o-shit moment again. I’m very modest and easily embarrassed, and I couldn’t make myself say it except I did. “Take me to bed. Right now. Please.” Remember how you felt the first time you scratched a kinky itch you’d been waiting to scratch your whole life? I had a need, and it was urgent. And all these years later, I’m still going to church with Mary almost every Sunday, doing my best to pay attention. It’s not about respect anymore, Mary says when I get in trouble for not paying attention, but that church, just like the spanking she is about to give me/is giving me/just gave me, is about helping me make good choices. All part of growing up, she says (hmmph!). After church, which I managed to pay attention to even though I was thinking I should’ve just gotten the last chocolate twist, I said to Mary, “For my present for being a good girl, we should get an emu.” I’d been thinking on how to bring that up. “You wanna live on a farm like that woman on Twitter and have emu friends?” “She’s gay, ya know. Her girlfriend films her videos.” “We can sell the house and buy a farm. I can work from anywhere.” “Ya know, you think you’re the grounded one, but all I have to do is bat my eyelashes and you promise me my every whim.” “Can’t help it. I’m in love with you.” “So in love with me.” “You’re kinda like her emu.” “How the heck am I like the emu? I’m the cute gay girl in overalls and a sun hat.” “You choose violence sometimes, Daffy, like Emmanuel.” “Um, projecting much, woman who’s so quick to spank?” “So maybe we don’t sell the house and buy a farm, but we can buy you some cute overalls and a new hat.” “Kay … Do we know anybody with a barn and a video camera?” She scoffed at me. “You wanna make Twitter videos now?” “I wanna be a naughty farm hand who gets her comeuppance at the stern hands of her employer … And maybe it’s an all-lesbian farm and the other hands just keeping doing their work and don’t even take notice cuz they’re so used to seeing me get spanked for slacking off.” “How is it you haven’t been fired if you’re always slacking off?” “I’m the boss’s favorite.” “How did you get to be her favorite.” “We’re sleeping together. The other girls are very resentful. I used to sneak outta the bunk house, but the farmer and me don’t even hide that we’re fucking anymore.” “Does the farmer tolerate that kind of language?” “Only during moments of passion … Or when the tractor falls on you.” Mary sighed; I felt her breath on my neck. “Of all the ways you’re a silly goose …”

So glad to see you’re picking this up again. It’s one of my favorites on DD

Scene #184 I hate doorbells. I much prefer a good knock. Knock from a delivery person? I could do without, tbh. Knock from someone going door to door? Not gonna answer probably. Knock from a friend? Heck yes please. But as with all things in retail and life, location location location. And timing. Location and timing. Let’s take for instance my location at the time of this happening that happened: the living room corner. And the timing: post-getting my butt spanked (hard! I mean, geez Mary; think of your rotator cuff!). And the location of other items of import. Pants: over the arm of the couch. Panties: no idea. They flew off my ankles, and I didn’t see where. About half the time that happens, an underpants gnome steals them before I can find them, and about most of those times, the gnome is named Mary and she’s five-foot-eight, much bigger than the average gnome but no less delighted to hide my underpants from me. And what about Mary’s location: on the couch. Probably taking a breather after all that exertion. That, and waiting for my timeout to be over cuz - and she’ll deny this if asked - she HATES putting me in the corner if I’m still crying. Her caregiver self just wants to caregive the stuffing outta me, but she parks me in the corner anyway cuz she says I learn from it. I don’t know about that cuz I think I’ve learned all the things. I mean, I legit know it all. A lot of people agree with me ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘she’s such a know it all.’ So ya might say we were having a private moment, what with my nuditity and weepiness and fighting the good fight against the little sobs I hadn’t yet gotten under control when, DING DONG! I swear I’d disconnect the thing if I had any idea how. I startled a little, cuz I always do when the doorbell rings, and I even (horrors!) turned around a little, verboten during corner time, and Mary gave me one her you’re-still-in-timeout-sweetie looks as she got up to get the door. Our house has one of those foyer things, so opening the door doesn’t mean my girl parts will be out there for all visitors to see in the event they’re already out there for Mary to see. However, if we had no foyer, that wouldn’t stop Mary from letting certain visitors walk on in. I know this because Mary did! That’s what she did! With my butt out! And stuff too! “It’s just your Nana,” Mary called to me as she unlocked our door. And that was purely informative. It was not a company-is-here-cover-your-shame warning. Not that she needed to warn me, because I’m cool as a zucchini, not at all the type of person who gets stressed just because someone who isn’t my wife is about to see my spanked butt standing in timeout like a nighty little girl circa 1962. I certainly did not suffer a setback in the fight against the diaphragm cramping and the sobs and tears. Not a thing that happened; ahistorical; libelous. Really. “Good morning, Mae. Come in.” “Good morning. I came to ask Daffy a favor,” Nana conveyed to Mary as Mary conveyed Nana right into the living room. The woman has no social graces! Like, friggin at all! She takes liberties, is what she does. Has way too high a risk tolerance for the possibility of offending people with the sight of our lifestyle just all out there and stuff. True story. “Have a seat. I was just about to let her out of timeout.” I’m guessing that’s about when Nana established line-of-sight with my butt. The rest of me too, but something about bare butts just draws the eye, ya know? Mystery of human psychology (and I’m not too sarcastic! where do these rumors start?). “O,” Nana said, putting it quite lightly. In my fantasy world, she followed that up with ‘I’ll back out of the room and we’ll all pretend this never happened.’ But nope. Just nope. In the world that actually exists (allegedly; I’m starting to have doubts), Nana followed up her interjection with, “Am I interrupting something?” “Not at all. Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?” You suck, Mary. So, so much sometimes. “I’m fine, thank you. Is everything alright?” “We had a little problem with attitude this morning. You can come out, Daffy. Come sit with me.” ‘With me’ is Mary-speak in certain circumstances for ‘on me.’ Once upon a time, in the misty past, Mary and I didn’t so much with my naked butt around vanilla neighbors. And those vanilla neighbors would’ve been quite offended (despite what a great butt I have). But not Nana; at least, not for a while now. But me, personally, I like my person covered when we have company. Called me repressed or something, I guess. If I knew where my panties were, I’d have put them back on. Unfortunately for me, I was too well spanked to care enough to go looking, though when Mary says to go to her, she doesn’t appreciate detours anyway. Mary and Nana were on the couch. If I sat on Mary’s lap, which is how I understood her instruction, I’d either be giving Nana a full frontal if I sat on Mary’s left or an even better closeup of my newly spanked butt if I sat on her right. I opted to deliberately misinterpret (at least I think) Mary’s instructions and sat down between them, not exactly much better. I put my head on Mary’s shoulder, which I wanted to do no matter where I was sitting. Sometimes I wish I could her to be shorter just for a few minutes so I can rest my head there easier. Then she could go back to being tall and strong and authoritative and stuff. “Closer,” Mary said all nice to me. My consequence was over. She’s nice to me even in the middle of a consequence, and consequences can be quite mean, which just goes to show how talented she is. Manhandling me in that nice way she does, she lifted my legs right off the floor and did a pivot-and-lift move to sit me on her lap. I like that she’s strong enough to do that, and I usually like that she does it without asking. I didn’t mind right then because I was still upset and because sitting in between them wasn’t as good at concealing my princess part (Mary’s term) as I thought. With my head on her shoulder, I sniffed back a head full and wiped my eyes on her tee shirt. A hand was suddenly in my peripheral tapping Mary on the shoulder, offering a tissue. Mary took it, held it for me, and told me, “Honk.” I don’t honk because I’m not waterfowl, but it certainly sounded honk-like. I’d had (and was still slightly having) a serious cry. Mary reached for another, Nana handed it to her, and Mary told me, “Look up, sweetheart.” When I did, she dabbed at my eyes and cheeks. Nana being in the room has not, in recent years, stopped Mary from spanking me. Not like a full on spanking, cuz that would terrify the poor vanilla, but the lady has seen my butt smacked. So of course Mary thought nothing of finishing my talking-to with Nana looking on. “Why did I have to give you that spanking?” “Cuz I was being a bitch.” Which is very unlike me. I’m usually just as sweet as sugar candy all fine and dandy, but sometimes, for someone who’s only five-foot-two, a lot of bitchiness comes out. “And what’s the rule?” “Bad moods and PMS are not an excuse for being a bitch.” True story. Mary made that rule when we were dating, and it applies to both of us. When Mary does it, I tell her to stop. When I do it, Mary tells me to stop. When Mary does it after having been told to stop, I tell her to stop again. When I do it after having been told to stop, Mary takes the nearest paddle to my butt. In the midst of this private moment, some hand that didn’t belong to anyone named Taylor stroked my back. Of course Nana doesn’t know the rules, but being touched by someone during aftercare who wasn’t involved from the get go or invited to touch is not cool. I buried my face in the little space between Mary’s arm and body, snuggled in closer, and think, though I’m not sure, I felt Mary just barely shaking her head. I like aftercare from others, but not til I finish my aftercare with Mary. Mary stroked my hair and leaned her head against mine and I could feel the heat of her breath and smell her scent. What a safe place. “You want to try telling me again what’s with the attitude you had,” Mary asked. Past tense. Anything I hear of someone getting punished for a bad attitude, I think how ridiculous it is. How’s a punishment supposed to make someone feel better? But what I’m really asking is how it’s supposed to make normal people feel better, because nine times out of ten I get spanked for bad attitude, a butt warming totally resets my mood. “Nothing. I just didn’t get enough sleep,” I said with Marty’s shirt muffling my answer. I wasn’t in a bad mood because I didn’t get enough sleep. I was in a bad mood because I didn’t get enough sleep and Mary had the TV while she was making breakfast, and the sound of people speaking just really ticked me off. That’s a perfectly reasonable reaction. Um, really. “You stayed up late last night with those video games of yours.” I swear Mary channels my mom when it comes to gaming. She understands only marginally better than my mom did circa 1994. It’s not like I’m constantly playing or streaming it or anything. I just got in a groove and then it was after midnight. “Maybe you need a bedtime again.” Funny thing, I get physically excited for sleep sometimes. I love sleep. But sometimes other runs things lead me astray and I stay up too late. Mary gave me a bedtime shortly after I stopped working so I wouldn’t get into bad sleep habits, and it just gradually became one of those things we forgot about. “Okay.” I was feeling awfully malleable, as I so often do after Mary spanks the me into a weepy mess (she likes me suggestible and stuff because reasons), and I was surprised Nana hadn’t commented on how red (and purple and probably with a couple of those white patches you get when you really get it good). She’s had words with Mary before about spanking me too hard, but I guess the words Mary had back (and some of my own) got through to her. Too bad I’m not the kind of person who can correct her behavior just by being told to … which would actually be horrible, not that I think on it. No fun at all. “Your bedtime is no later than when I get in bed. That way we can have some snuggle time. You never wake up in a bad mood if you fall asleep in my arms.” True story. A smidge embarrassing to have Nana overhear that. “I’ll make good choices today. I promise.” She kissed my hair. “I know you will.” She kissed me again. “My good girl.” “Sorry again.” “No more sorries. You got your consequence, and all is forgiven.” I’m forgiven and a good girl? O fuck yes! What’s better than that? Nothing. That’s how much. “Ready to get up?” I nodded and got a good squeeze. “Up you get.” I slid off her lap, and what lay before me but Nana, on the floor on her knees next to a throw blanket, on top of which was a pre-powdered diaper. What the heccin hey. I looked at Nana, then Mary. Nana very nicely said, “You don’t wanna go around naked all day, do you?” She said it all innocent and stuff, easy for her to do because she was, ya know, actually innocent. The same question from Mary would be faux-innocent (which I kinda like, but please don’t tell her). When Mary does does the faux-innocent thing, I feel embarrassed yet righteous, which leads to me going hmmph! and helps get me back to my equilibrium. Turns out when Nana does it and is actually innocent, I feel very smol. Gone is the fun teasing. In its place, neighbor who assumed I either wear diapers pretty much all the time, or because I’d just gotten in trouble, or that I was wearing one before I went over Mary’s knee. I looked at Mary again, who made might-as-well eyes at me and said, “It’s okay. Lie down.” “Okay.” Sometimes I’m too suggestible. Mary likes me that way too. So I laid down and let Nana put one of Mary’s diapers on me. “Look like you could use the padding today,” Nana chuckled as she sealed the last tape. “What do you say,” Mary chimed in. “Thank you.” Nana helped me sit up. “I was going to ask you to come over and help me move something, but I think you you should take a nap first.” “That’s a good idea,” Mary joined in. She held out her hand and helped me up. “Will you be home all day? She can come over after.” “I’ll be there. It’ll give me time to bake some cookies. I’m going to make some ice cream sandwiches with them after they cool. You wanna help me do that too?” Uh, heck yeah. “Mhmm.” “I’ll let her down and send her over around 10:30. How about I make some lunch while she’s over there and I’ll bring over a picnic?” Mary was tucking me in, moments after telling me she’d find one of the onesies Nana made for me to wear over there (under my shorts, I assumed). Before I fell back asleep, I first thought to myself, wow, it’s only nine and it’s been a full day already. And then, did I just get spanked by my wife, diapered by the grandma next door, put down for a nap, and promised cookies? What is even happening anymore?

It is on my Patreon! It can be found here. There are 11 chapters in Volume 1, and Volume 2 has 8 and counting. It will probably end up being 20-30. https://www.patreon.com/alex_bridges?filters[search_query]=best babysitter in town&sort=published_at

Hi all! So excited to announce the story is not ILLUSTRATED ON KINDLE. I commissioned pics from a real-life ABDL husband and wife to act out the scenes, and they are perfect as Gordy and Sally. Here's on my favorite pics along with another chapter preview. Check out the rest on Amazon or my Patreon, where I'm also working on Volume 1. __________________ Chapter 4 And then he really did slow down his eating to a crawl. I’ve seen tree sloths chew faster. But I was patient. I had butterflies in my own tummy, so I can only imagine his. I tried to be kind of clinical about the whole thing, like it was no different from getting a shot. Hey, sorry this hurts, but let’s just get it over with and then you can have a lolly. Fake it til you make it, I guess. “Let’s do the dishes first.” Fun babysitting tip: you can eat up time, make kids feel like proud little helpers, and make parents think you’re a regular Miss Rogers if you do the dishes with the kiddos by hand. The old I-wash-you-dry routine didn’t get to be a classic by accident. “No dawdling,” I had to say at one point. And then made a terrible joke. “Unless you want to tack delaying on to your spanking.” A terrible joke that went right over his head. “Sorry.” I guess he wasn’t in a joking mood. Oops. Dishes done, there was no reason (no good excuse?) to delay it. “Okay,” I said, “your stepmom said you’d answer any of my questions, remember?” “Yes.” “And I said you’d only get to stay up if you cooperated, right? So show me where you get your spankings.” So … maybe there just isn’t a non-embarrassing way to phrase certain questions after all. “Um, in my room, mostly.” Mostly? Geez, he couldn’t even get spanked in the privacy of his own room every time? Poor boy. Poor, twenty-year-old boy. “Lead the way,” I said, still trying to sound upbeat and like this was just something unpleasant to bravely do. For me, I guess it was. For him … poor boy. I’d actually never been in his room. A dozen times I’d sat for his siblings, but his bedroom door was always closed. Of course, if I had a huge diaper changing table in my room like he did, I’d nail the damn door shut. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.” This part was far less awkward, if only by comparison. Changing diapers is something I know how to do. Pretty good at it actually, if I can brag a little. “Wait,” I said as he was about halfway on to his changing table (big piece of furniture, that. Good thing they have such a big house). “Your stepmom said something about you know where she keeps her hairbrush?” And there was his I’m-the-saddest-puppy-in-the-world face again. So the hairbrush was that much worse, apparently. “Could you … It …” I cut off the hemming and hawing. I felt for him, but I just wanted to get it over with, preferably quick and even better without an argument from him, especially since I didn’t have a counter-argument beyond ‘your stepmom said’ but also because I didn’t feel good about what I was about to do. Maybe selfish of me, but I didn’t want to feel even worse, which arguing with him would definitely have done. So I cut him off with, “Ah-ah-ah. You said you’d be my helper. Show me what a good boy you can be and go get it. And don’t dawdle,” I added when he started shuffling like an old man toward the master bedroom. Which gave me time alone to ask myself why in god’s name I’d said ‘show me what a good boy you can be.’ It just came out, like the most natural words in the world to use with someone who gets spanked, even at twenty. Never given a spanking, but it just seemed like … the kind of thing you say to a boy when asking him to cooperate with his spanking, I guess. “Stop being so self-conscious,” I said out loud to myself. “Just get through it. Whatever seems natural just … I’ll take that.” And damn did his sad puppy face make a lot of damn sense to me then. I’d never been spanked by anything but a hand, and this brush was hard and heavy. I didn’t have to feel it to know it had to hurt like a (step)mother. It looked old, like an antique. I don’t even know where you’d buy a brush like that today. I don’t even know anyone who has one like it. I set it on his desk. Going with what felt natural, and trying to get this over with, and trying to at least seem confident, “Slippers,” I said like I undressed twenty-year-olds for their diaper changes every day. “Let’s get these off now. Ah-ah-ah. I got it. I’ve changed plenty of boys’ diapers,” I said when he started taking off his own pajama pants. “I can take down a pair of jammies without any help from you,” I play-scolded. Maybe I went a little too far with the going with whatever felt natural thing. Yeah, he blushed hard, but he’d been doing that every eight seconds since six o’clock. “Goodness,” I said as my hand brushed his diaper as I slid his pajama pants down. “Step out. I should’ve checked you sooner.” I held his pants up and squeezed the fabric around the seat. “But you didn’t leak. Our lucky day. I guess all that soda caught up with you. Hop on up.” I’d never seen a changing table like it before. I’d never seen one for changing an adult before period, but I’m guessing if I did, it wouldn’t have had stirrups like his did. I’ve been on a table with stirrups and can’t say I enjoyed it, but they’re functional and so were these. “I didn’t know they made tables like this.” “They don’t,” he said as he laid back. “I made it. Well, modified it.” “How you’d learn how to do that?” “I’m an engineering major.” “And you weren’t doing well in your classes? This thing is pretty neat.” I meant that; wasn’t just trying to make him feel better. “What’s this do?” Should probably have asked that before touching the button. “Careful! It’s adjustable. It raises it. See? Like a hospital bed.” “Did I screw up your settings?” “I have my own controller.” He reached for a remote and adjusted the thing just a little, but when you spend a few sessions a day on one of these things, I guess the little differences are noticeable. “Comfy?” “Yeah.” I think he meant on the outside; on the inside, he sounded somewhere between uncomfortable and inner turmoil. “Good. Just lay back, and we’ll get you cleaned up.” In retrospect, I think maybe I’m one of those people who prattles when they’re nervous or embarrassed. “So … big diapers, huh,” I remarked as I looked at what was on the shelves under the table. “A few kinds. Um … ah, here we go. Wipes. Found ‘em. Ooo, big wipes too … Pretty cool having a wipe warmer, I bet. Better than them being cold.” I had wipes. I knew where the diapers were. I saw the powder and cream. There were even gloves. “Ooo, gloves! Sorry, I almost forgot.” “Those are just for when I’m …” He didn’t finish that sentence and didn’t need to. “O … Is it alright with you if I wear them anyway? I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just that I sit for a few different babies and toddlers in diapers, and I always wear them so I don’t accidentally spread germs. I normally bring my own, but since I didn’t know I’d be changing diapers tonight …” See what I mean about the prattling? I got the gloves on. “Alright, down to business …” The only things I knew about adult diapers were things I learned from TV commercials, and his didn’t look those. Those looked thin and papery. If someone said draw an adult diaper, I’d have drawn what he was wearing, except for the four tapes. I’d never seen a diaper with four tapes before. I paused before opening them, sorta to give myself a moment before the awkwardness skyrocketed (again), but also to keep my passenger calm. Not like I needed to give him my keys to play with, but I felt I owed him, well, not an apology exactly but something like it. “Before I, ya know, I just want to say sorry if this is awkward. I know you can do this yourself when you’re allowed. I don’t think any differently of you because you wear diapers or need help changing them. I change diapers at least a couple days a week, and this is no different. I’m just going to do this like I always do, okay?” “Uh, okay.” “And if it gets awkward or you need me to stop or to do something differently, just say so. Will you do that?” “Mhmm.” “Good boy. You ready?” Stop calling him stuff like that, I scolded myself as I waited for his answer. When he nodded, I opened the four tapes one by one. He was wearing a cloth-like diaper, just like the ones they make for kiddos today, so it was easy to open. It didn’t occur to me until later there were other kinds of diapers because I just hadn’t looked that closely when I looked at his selection. With his diaper open, I pulled it down just enough to let a little air on his bits and pieces but didn’t uncover him just yet. “I remember the first time I changed a boy’s diaper, the little stinker got me right in the chest with weewee. Learned my lesson,” I narrated before opening his diaper the rest of the way. He probably didn’t appreciate me absentmindedly reciting that anecdote, but at least I didn’t start baby-talking him like I do most of the kiddos under my care when I’m changing their diapers. And at least I didn’t get sprayed in the chest again with what I imagine would be more than a little squirt. And believe you me, I could’ve called him a cutie patootie. Let’s start with how sweet he seemed up there, his feet in the stirrups and just laying back so obediently. The blush in his cheeks. And his D. Someone’s a grower, not a shower. At least, I hoped so for his sake. Not tiny, but a cry from what I was used to seeing attached to boys my age. I’m not a size queen, but I know below average when I see it, and when I saw it, I couldn’t help but think it was cute. As I was wiping off the rest of him, I had this silly thought that maybe penises are like goldish: they’ll grow to match the size of the bowl. Perhaps being in diapers keeps them small? Just kidding, but sorta funny in a way I’d never say to Gordy. “I’m going to clean off your … you, now. It might be awkward for you, but we’ll do it quickly.” I picked it up, sort of, and wiped it off, and I was taken aback but not surprised when it moved on its own. I didn’t say anything about it, of course. I mean, how rude would that have been? “Lift up for me.” I slid the diaper out from under him and set it to the side. I was surprised, seeing it open, just how big it was. Gordy is small, but the only boys I’m used to diapering are babies and toddlers and one bedwetter whose parents don’t guy him Goodnites for whatever reason. And I was surprised how heavy the thing was. I really should’ve checked him right before dinner; minor miracle he didn’t leak. But more to the immediate point, I’d never felt such a heavy diaper … and it was just wet. His other ones … woah; what must those be like? The stirrups really helped, and Gordy seemed to know his way through a diaper change by heart. He lifted and turned and twisted without my asking, and I’m glad of it cuz I didn’t know my way around an adult diaper change at all, different mechanics with those longer legs and all. But that didn’t at all prepare me for Gordy to grab his knees and pull them to his chest. I guess I conveniently forgot about that part (of him). I half wanted to scold him for not giving me a damn warning, but he didn’t do anything wrong. He did this probably six times a day; it just didn’t occur to him to warn me cuz, as I reminded him and needed to remind myself, this was his normal. And anyways, after the initial shock of there suddenly being an open butt crack in front of me, I wiped any trace of weewee off it like it was any other butt on a changing table … and being thorough like the best babysitter in town should be, yeah, I gave his rosebud a few passes with the wipe too. I rolled up the diaper, taped it into a ball and … “Um, where do I …” “See the little door thing? Just drop it in there.” “Ah.” What a satisfying thud it made. “There’s a diaper pail in there?” “Yeah, so it’s not out where everyone can see it. Plus it helps with the … “ “Scent? I bet.” He must be able to make some full diapers. I was curious why he was in them. Obviously, he needed them, but why specifically? I didn’t ask. It wasn’t any of my business. Maybe it was a little more my business since I’d just changed him, but that left a good ten miles between my business and his … except for the business he did in his diapers. And if that pun felt awkward, imagine how I felt having a half-naked twenty-year-old on a changing table in front of me and having to figure out some transition to the next phase of our evening: spanking the bottom I’d just wiped.

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Scene #183 When you wake up at night, but not really cuz you’re just barely conscious and don’t even remember it, does that count as still being asleep? If so, I’m misbehaving in my sleep now according to some people who don’t handle being concerned about their loved ones very well and go on offense to cover it and are called Mary. She’s sweet though, which is why she stripped the bed even though the laundry is my chore Most littles chores are my chores since I’m a stay-at-home queen now, though sometimes I give into the temptation to not do my chores to see how the rest of the royal household will react. But she was just being nice cuz I was groggy when I woke up and was still sitting on the couch processing breakfast. Yep, took me three hours that morning to go from awake to doing anything; one hour to get out of bed; twenty minutes to eat breakfast; eighty minutes to stare into the middle distance and try to conjure a cogent thought or the will to stand up. And in came Mary, holding up the fitted sheet from our bed. “Daffy,” Mary who was talking way too early to be talking (10am) talked at me. “Do you know what this stain on our sheets is?” “Shhhh. We’re not talking yet.” And I wasn’t even hungover. I was just super tired from not sleeping well twelve nights in a row. Mary sat down on the coffee table right in front of me and looked at me like she sometimes does when I eat too much sugar, i.e., checking my pupils. She frowned a little, and while I was distracted by the effort of keeping myself upright, she reached out without my noticing and squeeze-tickled my side. I’m usually much better with the reflexes and noticing and (attempted) stopping of that move, but she snuck it through and made me go, “Yipe! What was that for?!?” “Are you okay?” “I’m just slee-yawwwwn-py.” “So speaking of things we do in bed,” she said, and that’s a phrase that’s bound to catch my ear, “what is this? Because it looks like …” “Chocolate.” “How did this much chocolate get on our sheets? Did you fall asleep on a a Hershey bar,” she said with her signature chortle. You know I’m not one to waste chocolate, but when you’re eating in the one-eighth conscious state described above, well … “I must’ve fallen back asleep and rolled over on it.” There’s a super easy way of knowing for sure that Mary, clever as she is, deduced straight away. “Stand up for a sec.” Which I did, because I’m very cooperative. She turned me left, turned me right, turned me around, checked my pajama bottoms and yep, a matching chocolate stain. “When did you eat chocolate in bed last night?” “I dunno. Too late to be early but too early to be late.” I plopped back onto the sofa, and Mary, who was being kinda bossy if I’m telling the truth which is what I always tell because someone has to (do I gotta do everything for everyone? You’re welcome, ya buncha ingrates!), took hold of my upper arm and pulled me back onto my feet. “Well, don’t get it on the couch, silly goose.” “I’m not a silly g-yawwwwn-oose.” She just took my pajama pants off me with one hand is what she did. She’s very good at that; almost like she’s had an abnormal amount of practice taking my pants off with one hand while her other hand … does stuff. She was being so bossy she didn’t even let me sit back down. She just dropped the sheet and my pajama bottoms and took me upstairs to our bedroom. It’s gotta be one of my all-time favorite places. She took me straight to my nightstand, opened the drawer, and asked me, “What gives?” “I’ve been waking up a bunch of times at night. It makes it easier to go back to sleep.” Hmm. Mary’s there-she-goes-with-her-nonsense-again face. I honestly have no idea what she means by the nonsense or again with that face. I’ve made nothing but sense since I’ve known her and then some. Just because I leave out a lot of details that would help her understand doesn’t make what I say nonsense. True story. And if anyone, including me, ever says I say any nonsense, then you just look them in the eye and kindly but firmly tell them that’s some nonsense they’re spouting (especially if it’s me). “Remember last week I was getting up a lot,” I reminded her. “Yeah.” “I was really hungry, and then I couldn’t fall back asleep so I put some candy in the drawer so I could eat something without getting up.” I’ve been getting back to sleep easier, a little too easy if I feel asleep on a chocolate bar, but I wasn’t any better rested. Mary took a deep breath and let it out while eyeing me with her I’m-considering-something eyes. “By ‘really hungry,’ do you mean your blood sugar has been getting low at night again?” “Yeah, I think so.” “Sit.” “W…” “Sit, little girl.” “How am I trouble?” My emotions were being pulled in so many directions. One the one hand, I love being on the bed. Other the other, what did I do (other than fall asleep on a piece of a Dove bar)? So count those directions I was being pulled in: one, two … two directions! That’s a lot for me; I’m only five-foot-two. Mary walked to the bathroom and came back with the thermometer. “Hold real still,” she said in a very sweet voice. It’s the kind you can press against a forehead, but she always puts it in my ear. I can’t complain cuz sometimes she uses the other kind and seems to take some sort of pleasure in putting it right in my butt. How weird is that? She’s weird. I only squirm when she does that because there’s something in my butt and she’s usually teasing me and sometimes smacking my cheeks and and flicks the thermometer and I kinda like it. But that thermometer is for playtime. The thermometer she just put in my ear is for healthcare. “You don’t have a fever.” “I know that.” Totally ignored me. Looked at my eyes again. Pressed on the lymph nodes in my neck (both sides, kinda hard). “Do you have a headache?” “No.” “Cough?” “No.” “Ears hurt?” “No.” “Sneezing? Itchy or watery eyes? Upset stomach?” “O my gawd, you sound like the disclaimer at the end of a medicine commercial.” “Are you getting a flare up?” Super good question that I’d also been wondering. “Nothing hurts. Other than being tired and hungry at night, I think I’m fine.” “Daphne,” Mary said with her I’m-so-serious-you-don’t-even-wanna-know-how-serious-I-am face, “should we call Dr. Murray?” “Mary, you’re being a worry wort.” I don’t what happened (and I was there), but one half a second I was sitting upright and the next half a second I was sitting upright but my left butt cheek hurt, like, a lot. I made my what-just-happened-and-how-is-she-a-ninja-and-a-sorceress-all-at-once face with the darting eyes and furrowed brow I often exhibit when trying to figure out what my ninja-sorceress wife just did to me. “Is that a yes or a no?” “No … and ouch.” Even if I was getting flare up, my immunologist couldn’t do anything about it. I’m already on daily meds and have the ones I need to cope with a flare up. If Dr. Murray could do anything more, she’d have done it all the time before. “It’s my job to worry.” She sat down next to me, put her arm around my shoulder, and leaned her head against mine. “Are you eating enough,” she asked me. “That is such a sapphic thing to say,” I tried to very gently joke. I got nary a titter so I answered the question. “I think so. Not exactly one of my problems.” I’m ear for someone 1.3 times my size; a lot of people have just come right out and told me how much they hate me a little cuz I can eat a small cake all on my own but only gain about three pounds a decade. “Are you eating enough real food, I mean? Protein and fiber.” “I think so. Maybe it’s because I’ve been outside a lot lately. Not eating enough for all the walking I’m doing with Suzy, maybe.” She kissed my temple. “Your bedtime snack is a protein bar until you’re not waking up hungry at night anymore, and if you do wake up hungry, you’re eating a protein bar, not candy.” “Okay … Mary, are you alright? You’ve been weird the last few days.” “I’m fine. I just worry about you. You’ve been so tired for the last two weeks. I don’t like it when you don’t feel well.” We have so much in common; neither do I. “Stand up.” “Why? What are you gonna do to me?” “I’m gonna make the bed while you sit the chair and look pretty.” “I don’t look pretty this morning.” But I sat in the chair anyway, and Mary made the bed and didn’t even need two tries to figure out which was the long end of the fitted sheet. I’m getting better at it, but I still sometimes need two (or five) tries. She started putting the pillowcases on the pillows and shot me a back-on-your-butt dirty look that had me sitting back on my butt instead of helping her. “On the bed,” she ordered me in that way she has of being bossy and nice at the same time. She’s very talented, and I’m so very susceptible to her talents it’s almost like I’m submissive to her or something weird like that.. She walked right past me into the closet and emerged with two diapers. She was being so nice to me she didn’t even scold me for rolling my eyes or kicking my heel against the bed. “Such a handful,” she chided me instead. “You know the rules: when you don’t feel well, you wear a diaper. Which one do you want?” I only chose the cloth one cuz I hadn’t worn one of those in forever, and I hoped it would be a little more breathable around my hips than the disposable one. I have way too much pride to ever point this out to Mary, but it’s summertime and the only other diapers she has right now are the plastic kind. I get clammy around my butt and hips. But I’ll sweat until I shrivel before asking her to buy the cloth-like kind; she’ll surely (willfully) misinterpret that request as an admission of enjoying wearing diapers. It would take months to undo that just to get back to the status quo. “Where’s your phone,” Mary asked. “I left it in the living room.” “Good.” She opened my drawer again and took out my small stash of candy. “I’m putting in the freezer, before you start pouting.” “That’s ridiculous, Mary. I’ve never pouted over candy or anything else. Really.” And she didn’t even roll her eyes at me! Geez, when she’s serious it’s, like, such a serious thing. “Here,” she said and handed me my sleep mask. I used to keep it with our travel things for long flights, and then pandemic and I started wearing it for naps instead. “I’m taking a nap?” She answered, “Yes. A long one,” while pulling our comforter over me. “You’re going to stay in this bed until I come get you. I’m going to come check on you in half an hour, and if you’re still awake, you’re taking a Tylenol PM.” I, uh, get goofy on Tylenol PM. Also pretty much anything medicine ending in PM or starting with Ny. But I sleep well on it (and have the weirdest, most vivid dreams; kinda fun, but very groggy when I wake up). “But we have things to do today,” I said and propped myself up on my elbow. “Yes,” she said and unpropped me up. “You have to get some sleep. I have to make sure you get some sleep. And when you wake up, I’m going turn you over my knee and spank your bare bottom with that paddle on your nightstand.” “What? What’d I do?” “Two weeks, Daffy. Two weeks, and you didn’t tell me your blood sugar was getting low and you were losing sleep because of it. You tell me when you don’t feel well, little girl.” “But …” “Yeah, your butt over my knee getting spanked with your paddle until you cry, and then I’ll give you a bath and wash your pretty face and hair. I bet you could use a good cry.” “Well, yeah, probably.” I mean, I almost always could. And then she kissed me on my temple again. “Sleep well.” She got up and started toward the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to make you worry for no reason” “You’re the reason.” “I know … Sorry.” “We’ll take care of sorry after your nap. You want the fan on?” “Yes, please.” “Put your mask on and get to sleep.” She’s so heccin nice to me sometimes that it hurts (especially on my butt). But seriously, the woman heccin loves me, and I love her back just as much. Sleepy, wistful sighs …

Scene #182 The last time we had Mary’s family over was for my birthday back during the plague-iest days the plague. Mary and I sat on one side of our yard, and her family sat on the other. They stayed a half hour and left so that other guests could pay tribute to the day I came into and immensely and immediately improved the world. In fact, this was the first time since before March 2020 that we had more than two people in the house and hadn’t quarantined for ten days and/or tested prior to it. We take the safety of my immunocompromised body super seriously, and if you think I get anxious, you should see how Mary gets when it comes to my health. I think maybe cuz she likes me or something? “Mary,” I said after I’d gotten out of the shower. I was trying to get her attention. “Mary … Hey, Mary?” “Yeah.” “I don’t wanna wear a diaper around your family.” I’m not even sure she knew she was taping one on me. For that matter, if she was even aware of how the moment I crossed our en suite bathroom into our bedroom, she just appeared with a towel even though I already had one on and started drying my mostly already dry body off, then wrapped the thing around me like I might catch my death of cold. Before I knew which way up was, I was flat on my back on our bed with both towels pushed up past my bellybutton while Mary put me into one those ugly but silent medical diapers (and my lower half was a little cold). “Um, Mary? … Hello?” You don’t draw attention to yourself when in close proximity to a predator. That was my main mistake, and I knew it just as soon as she turned her wolfish grin on me; she’s such a she-wolf sometimes. She’s always up to something, which is highly entertaining and fun almost all the times, but like all public figures with obsessive fans like my Mary, I get a little nervous not knowing if they’re gonna ask for an autograph or try to steal a lock of my hair. “Mar…” “Pbbbbtttttt!” “Mar-eee-hhh-heeeheee-st-nurmf-hahahaha nurmfnhrmr snoozit, Mary!” “I should blow a lot a lot more raspberries on your tummy,” Mary said like that was any excuse for her effrontery. Fangirls have no manners. And I really told her off. I mean, I just let her verbally have it. “Well, I mean, if you want to … Or you could just tickle it sometimes … Or give me more tummy rubs.” “Who likes tummy rubs more, you or Suzy?” “Hmmm. She does that thing where she kicks her leg.” “You’ve done that before.” “That wasn’t my tummy.” Fangirls have no sense of boundaries, like the boundary between my tummy and … stuff. “Sometimes I wonder if we should give tickling fetish a try. You’re awfully ticklish.” “Yeah, but only because I’m ticklish.” True story. “I don’t think I enjoy tickling in that way.” “What if I make you do it anyway?” Uh-oh; Mary’s she-wolfish grin again. “In fact, what if I got a bunch of our friends over and we all tickled you.” “Um … I mean …” I finished that sentence with my patented yeah-if-you-want-let’s-give-it-go head motion, complete with my eyes turning up and to the left cuz I was imagining it and it was … intriguing. “And I think you should drink a lot of water beforehand, and two glasses of wine.” “Two glasses!?! Mary, is that even safe?” I am NOT a lightweight. Who even starts these rumors? Scurrilous rumormongers, that’s who. I’d rather spend my time with fishmongers, and they smell. True story. And then, see, Mary, she gave me a peck on the cheek. She likes me. “Whadduya wanna wear today,” she asked as she sauntered to my dresser. Just once I wanna saunter. It looks fun and very smooth, all Jane Cool and stuff. I sashayed once, but I don’t remember how I did it. I can flounce though. I’m great at flouncing. I also just like to say ‘flouncing.’ Try it; you’ll like it, I promise. I can multitask, really. I was singing a flouncing song I made up in my head (‘flouncy flouncing flouncer flounce …’, very creative of me), and to Mary, I said, “I was thinking about these panties I found in the women’s section of this department store once …” “You silly goose, you’re already wearing underpants.” “Marrryyy.” “Okay, fine. You can wear them over your pampers.” “Urgh!” “You wanna wear them under your pampers?” No! I lost one of my favorite pairs like that! She’s so mean and I only like it basically every time she does it. “Over would be agreeable.” I’m a very amenable negotiator. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to wear anything you don’t want or need to wear.” “I don’t want or need this diaper.” “We’ve been over, this little girl. Yes, you do. Tell me why.” “The inherent unfairness of the world.” True story. “Do you wanna wear a handprint below the hem of your skirt too?” Actually, yes, but after Mary’s family leaves. “Because you tell me too.” “But Daffy,” Mary said as if she were confused and surprised and perplexed and stuff, which she very seldom is (unless it’s in response to some of the nonsensical things I say. I spout of a lot of nonsense; I’m even known for it, but that’s not to say every thought and word I spout doesn’t totally make sense … just sometimes only makes sense to me). Anyway, Mary continued because she loves to continue, “I could tell lots of people to wear a diaper, and they wouldn’t do it, so how come you do it,” she asked as she tossed an outfit for me on the bed. “(Sound of me not answering).” “You know, you have a shorter top that tends to ride up and show anything that sticks up even a little bit past your waistband.” “Cuz I’m the submissive. There. Happy?” I mean, I was happy. Not about the diaper but so heccin happy being Mary’s submissive. Everybody should get a turn but nope not ever go get your own I’ll bite I swear I will! “And a little girl.” “I’m not a little girl.” “You’re my little girl.” She flopped on the bed next to me and still managed to do it sexy and stuff. When I flop, people who don’t know that’s always how I flop ask if I’m okay and should they call a family member or ambulance. Mary’s eyes were bright and shiny and happy, and what was even with her? “You’re my little girl. If you can be that, why would you ever wanna be anything else?” Aw geez! My feels! I put my arms over my face to have a moment alone, and I may have gay-squirmed a little, by which I mean I squirmed because I’m so gay for my Mary! So gay. “Ya know,” Mary said while lightly tickling my belly and observing no distinction between my tummy and the front of the diaper she was making me wear, “Milo has been out of diapers now for three years, and you’ve been back in them for three years.” Welp, that brought our nice moment to an end. I have not ‘been back in them.’ I’ve been occasionally made to wear them … with gradually increasing frequency (dammit …). “Whose fault is that,” I accusingly interrogated her. J’accuse! “You say ‘fault’ like it’s a bad thing. I know how much you like your diapers, but Milo made his own choice, and I’m really proud of …” “Hurninombler, Mary!” “…his accomplishment.” “Stop smirking and being so proud of yourself.” “I’m proud of my nephew, and I’m proud of my little girl for being brave enough to follow her diaper dreams.” “I’ma hit you with a pillow. Stay where you are.” Stupid pillows always being at the other end of the bed when you need em. (During the war, we called them feather weapons, which was the style at the time). No sooner did I flip over to reach for one of those feather weapons, than Mary walloped my butt hard – not that it hurt through that garment she was making me wear (I mean, why even bother? What fun is that?) – and took the opportunity offered by my vulnerability to just get on top of me, put her arms under my shoulders, hold me tight, and start nibling her way from my earlobe to my elbow. “Daffy.” “Yeah.” “Nothing. I’m just happy today. I like saying your name.” “Aw geez!!” She says stuff like that like there’s some way I can respond other than getting gayer and squirmier, and those are pretty much the only tools in my toolbox for that sorta thing. “Know what I wanna do later when we’re alone?” “Not specifically, but I have several ideas.” “I’m gonna get massage oil out.” “Ooo. What part of me do you want slippery?” Asking for my friend who is me. “All of you. I’m gonna give you a massage from your toes to your scalp, and it’s gonna feel so good, I bet you fall asleep partway through, little girl.” “And why would you do that when being awake can be so much fun?” I mean, sleep is on my top-10 list of most fun things ever, but the awake things on that list are pretty fucking awesome too and three of them aren’t even peanut butter or sugar (which isn’t to say the addition of peanut butter can’t make those things even more special). Mary laid her head against my back, and I felt her breath on the back of my neck. “Because taking care of you makes me happier than anything else.” I’d have turned around to see if she was okay, but she kinda had me pinned down (which is how she likes me, and I’m not about to object cuz it’s a pretty heccin awesome place to be). “Mary? Are you okay?” “I’m perfect.” And then she kissed the back of my neck and rolled off me so I could get dressed. But was she okay? I kept an eye on her the whole time her family was over. She had Suzy in her arms as much as that active little puppy meeting new people would let her; Mary was overjoyed to have new people to show her off to. I didn’t even make a sarcastic joke about Mary putting the dog in a onesie (poor dog; poor dog who seemed to be as happy as she’d ever been). And almost the whole rest of the time she was playing with our nephew. She showed him how to play with the toy we got him. She fawned over the picture he drew for us. She got down in the grass and wrestled with him and blew even bigger raspberries on his tummy than mine (and mine is bigger; it needs bigger raspberries!). She chased him around the yard with Suzy so many times, he almost fell asleep on her lap at the kitchen table. I tried to join in, and I could’ve sworn he was just tolerating me, which sucked and hurt a little because pre-pandemic, I was one of his favorite people. Not that I can blame him cuz is heccin awesome and my favorite too. He’d seen more of Mary than me in the almost three years since. He wanted Mary, and Mary had a blast with him. And I only tantrumed a little when Mary said to me later, by way of (allegedly) trying to make me feel less put out by being downgraded to second-favorite aunt, “Now that he’s dry day and night, he’s too young to understand some people need diapers longer than others. I’m sure he’ll play with you again when he gets older and more mature about differences.” Watching Mary showing off our puppy and playing with that little boy and hardly paying any attention to her sister or her husband or her parents, I realized something: Mary is so beautifully happy when she’s mothering someone.

i so hate proof reading I decided to post as soon as i was done so i could go do stuff and things

Cutie!