Alex Bridges

So here’s the deal I had a hip repair surgery yesterday, and unbeknownst to anyone, I had a ton of fluid in my abdomen pressing on my diaphragm, and I also had pneumonia in a very early stage. When they took me off the anesthesia, both of my lungs partially collapsed. So I’m in the hospital being treated for pneumonia and they’re trying to figure out the source of the abdominal fluid. Send all the vibes!

The surgery went well, but I had bad reaction to the anesthesia when I woke up. I’m doing okay, but I’m in the ER while they figure things out. Gone through three diapers and been cathed twice. Having a very very hard time emptying my bladder. So a rough go, but I’m doing okay all things considered

My surgery is today! Wish me luck.

Scene #170 “Daffy, you’re looking a little poofy pants.” Nana is just … like an older version of Mary sometimes. Whereas by contrast, i.e., difficult to see in the glare of the brilliant light I shine down across all my eyes survey, am always me. Except not exactly cuz if Mary said that, I’d have told her where she could go (nowhere; I like having her around, if only to reach stuff on the top shelves). But in the case of Nana saying it (and I thought my shorts hid it well, dammit!) I just turned tomato red and almost swallowed my tongue (and I don’t even like tomatoes!). Hmmph! “Daphne isn’t potty trained,” Mary helpfully informed Nana. If she gets any more helpful I’m gonna need to talk with about being a less charitable person and stuff. “Huh?” Exactly! “Until the puppy is potty trained, Daphne isn’t potty trained.” “Do you gotta tell all our secrets,” I hissed at Mary. “She’s gonna develop a bad opinion of you.” I was referring to the dog. I remind Mary frequently that the dog sees and hears everything. She’s gonna grow up thinking I’m the only one she can trust with secrets. “Such a silly girl.” Can you believe she calls me names like that, and in front of the neighbor no less. Then, o hell naw, she reached over and gently lifted the puppy off my lap and into hers. I told her she should’ve gotten her own (shortly after we got it home following my years of saying I didn’t want one and only getting this one cuz she wanted it so badly … but still, should’ve gotten one of her own). “And you still haven’t named her,” Nana asked. “We can’t decide,” Mary replied. “I can decide. I’ve decided several times.” “Maybe more you can’t agree,” Nana commented. That would be the crux of it. “What names have you come up with so far.” “Well, Ferris,” Mary suggested. “She’s a dog. She doesn’t get a day off.” That was me. Nana would never be so mouthy. At least, not to Mary. To me, yeah, she can be quite the smart-aleck, which is kinda rude cuz I wanna be the smart-aleck and I got there first (despite being less than half her age). “Super dog.” That was me, cuz this dog is so super! I’m obsessed with it, just not in the overly anxious, I’m-gonna have-a-panic-attack-any-moment way that I was worried about. I guess I’ve grown. “I’m not standing at the back door shouting ‘Super Dog’ when it’s time to come in.” “Why not? That would be pretty funny.” I’d tell people the dog’s name is John and that Mary’s just getting weird or something … as opposed to myself who’s been a smidge weird the whole time except for the fact I’m a hundred and ten percent normal and an example to all on how to be exceptional at it. “I’m with Mary on that one,” Nana added. “Any other ideas, Mary?” “I like Daisy. Daffodil and Daisy. Wouldn’t that be so cute?” “I am the flower. You do not get two flowers.” “What about Ducky,” Mary asked Nana. “Daffy and Ducky.” But like I gave Nana a chance to respond to that ludicrousness. “Firstly, why a Looney Toons reference? Do we owe Warner Brothers money or something?” “Cuz you’re looney,” Mary said when I wasn’t even done talking, and anyway, my alleged looneyness (looneyoscity?) is neither here nor there (cuz it’s everywhere despite my stellar normality, but still not the point). “And second, what is this and you keep referring to? ‘Daffodil and Daisy,’ ‘Daffy and Ducky.’ Are you promoting the dog to spouse or demoting me to pet?” Damn I’ve been wanting to say that for days! “Neither.” “Then stop trying to pair her name with mine.” “I think she has a very good point,” Nana chimed in. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Mary replied. “I was just thinking of what would be cute.“ Yeah, cute as in like playmates. The dog is not my sibling, and I am not her littermate. “Daffy,” Nana said like someone’s mom interjecting to put a stop to an argument, “what are some of your other ideas?” “Scoots.” “Vetoed,” Mary practically coughed out. No one appreciates my sense of humor sometimes. But I’m still gonna call her that sometimes (the dog, not Mary, cuz I want my butt to live). “What about Suzy,” I asked very nicely. They say when you ask nicely for things, you’re more likely to get them. And whudduya know? It worked. “I like Suzy,” was Mary’s answer. “Do you like Suzy,” she asked the dog, who responded by wagging her tail but she does that literally every single time attention is directed at her in any form. “She’s ecstatic,” Mary pronounced. True story. “Settled,” asked Nana, mediator extraordinaire (but good thing we’re not paying her cuz maybe more ordinaire than extraordinaire, which is not a knock on her so much as Mary’s and my positions were closer together than we let on). “Suzy,” Mary enunciated to the dog (whose name is now Suzy, which I came up with, further solidifying that she’s really my dog first and loves me most, which I will tell her when she’s old enough to understand these things). Though I am starting to get a little [insert emotion thats not jealousy here] about how much time Suzy is occupying Mary’s lap. Mine. Not that I’m possessive or jealous or anything. Really. “So Suzy is slow to house train,” Nana asked. “What have you tried? I was always able to potty train our dogs pretty quick.” O, poor Nana didn’t know just how big a can of cats she opened with that offer to be helpful. I took it upon myself to tell her. “She is house trained. Mary just doesn’t wanna admit it cuz she won’t lemme out of her stupid diapers.” “She is not,” was Mary’s rejoinder. Weak, Mary. So weak, so unlike you. “She hasn’t had an accident in two days!” I wasn’t shouting. I was just being exclamatory. True story. “Did you call them Mary’s diapers,” Nana asked. I think she was confused, which is Mary’s fault. “They’re not mine. They’re hers. I just wear them cuz she makes me.” “O … kay.” I detected some doubt in Nana’s tone. Hmm. Not sure what she could be confused about or what she may have been getting at. “I just think we she should be safe. I don’t want any relapses.” “She won’t.” “I mean you not letting her out often enough.” “I won’t, and I didn’t in the first place. She just wasn’t ready.” I didn’t want to do what I did next. I didn’t even plan on doing it. I hadn’t ever even previously thought of doing it. But right then, sitting in that damn diaper that Mary owns listening to her bull plop reasoning she could barely get out with a smirk plastered to her face, I decided to tattle. Except, and this is a question for the philosophy majors out there reading my very private diary (still unemployed, huh?), is it still tattling if you totally make it up? Like, can you lie and tattle? Or is that just framing someone? Anyhoo, I just couldn’t help myself. After all, I’m allegedly looney and therefore blameless. Really. “Mary’s only been changing me once a day.” In my right ear, I heard a stunned scoff. In my left ear, I heard a woman of a certain age and then some go, “Mary Taylor, how many times have we talked about this? You can’t put her in diapers and then just let her sit in it. You think not putting the dog out enough is bad, well, what the heck are you thinking when it comes to her bottom? What if she gets a rash? I am disappointed in you. You need to take better care of her. If you were my daughter, I’d spank you like you spank Daffy right here in this yard, and then I’d put your butt in a diaper for a whole day and see how you like it and your age and hers wouldn’t even slow me down. Now, you get up out of that chair and go change her right now.” Woah. What a telling off. Wasn’t really expecting that. That was, um, some reaction. So fun (if super embarrassing, a fair price to pay). Maybe too fun. Maybe, and tell me I’m crazy, only fun for me, judging by, o, say, the glare Nana was giving Mary and the glare Mary was giving me. Ruh roh, Suzy. “Daphne Ann,” this red-faced woman I married whose is usually more of a sultry cream color said to me like she wasn’t very happy with my choices or something. Not sure why she wouldn’t be. Really. “Don’t you get cross with her for telling me,” Nana shot back at Mary. Eep. “Mae, I have been changing Daffy whenever she needs it, more like 5 or 6 times a day, and those diapers can hold way more than that comfortably. The only problem here is Daffy telling lies to get me in trouble cuz she thinks it’s funny.” To my credit, I only thought it was funny when I thought to do it, when I did it, and for a very brief moment right after. As soon as that moment passed, I didn’t think it was funny at all … or maybe just a little. “Daphne,” Nana said as she turned her eyes toward me. Well, that would be my cue to exit. I’m not one to tell two lies in a row. “I’m gonna go let the dog out,” I said as we sat on Nana’s patio and enjoyed the out of doors. “In, actually. Heat’s not good for her.” “I got a better idea,” Mary said like she’s ever had an idea better than one of mine. I mean, she has and often does cuz she’s, like, brilliant and stuff and I love her very much, but why would you even bring that up right now and you’re sposed to be on my side. “I love you,” I blurted out. Just, ya know, as a reminder before she did anything she couldn’t take back. “You want out of diapers, fine,” Mary said as she set Suzy down and stood herself up. My goodness but she’s tall and strong and stuff, not that I was intimidated. Never have been, in fact, except some of the times. And as for what she just asked, the answer was a resounding yes but not just right then what with not wanting to be naked in the neighbor’s yard. I’m very conscientious like that, very community minded and stuff … and things too. “You’ll get out of diapers just as soon as we get home,” Mary pronounced as she helped me to my feet by way of taking me by the arm like I was in trouble or something. IDK what I might’ve done to get in trouble. Really. She marched me to the wall, which is to say the siding on Nana’s house, and cuz Mary’s just not very polite, she smacked my butt on the way there and - so not cool even if we were in Nana’s backyard behind a fence which makes it as private as our own private yard - yanked my shorts down. Like, there was a new experience after all these years. Corner time (siding time?) with no shorts but yes a diaper in the neighbor’s yard. Very low risk of being seen (if we’re not counting Nana, which I won’t, which just tells you how much my life has changed in a few short years - ugh), but not impossible if the person in the house behind looked out any of their many top-floor windows. “You’re in timeout until our visit is over. You keep your nose on that wall and your hands at your sides, and I might march you home through the backyard and not go through the front, and don’t you plan on sitting comfortably for a few days.” “But …” Which she mistakenly took as the signal to smack my butt again and shush me (as though there’s no talking timeout or something. Is that even legal at the international level?). So here’s a thing, maybe. Mary gets not so very pleased with me when I suggest she do something she normally associates with submission, not unheard of for a domme and the reason why I don’t do it cuz she gets all I’m-gonna-assert-my-authority and my butt plays a prominent role in that assertion. So maybe since I’m the humiliation bottom and she’s the humiliation top, I could’ve foreseen how she’d react. Except I couldn’t because I had idea Nana was gonna threaten to spank her and put her in a diaper. Empty threats, but I guess let that be a lesson to me to now embarrass the humiliation top I married. If I’d suggested those things, I’d get spanked like a left-handed, red-headed, rented step-mule (and I’m only two of those things, but I won’t tell you which and you’ll just hafta guess). And then Mary sat back down and turned on this really unsettling tone of voice as she said, “I’m so sorry, Mae. Sometimes I don’t know what gets into her,” like she was apologizing for a small child’s public misbehavior. As if! “I can assure you she’s getting quite the bare bottom spanking when I get her home. She’ll be a very sorry little girl. She’ll stop by to apologize tomorrow.” Nana would never play along with that or countenance such an offense against my adulthood and honor. Mary just doesn’t understand Nana. “No worries,” Nana told her. What the heccin heck, Nana? Seriously. “We’ve all been there. I can’t tell you how embarrassing mine could sometimes be in front of others.” She always says that! Nana never had one of me! Not unless she was ever secretly married to a lesbian into erotic humiliation with an ageplay twist. “And I’m sorry I flew off the handle like I did. I just care about Daphne very much.” “I know you do, and I really appreciate everything you do for her. I can tell you right now, if Daffy is gonna make choices like that when she’s over here without me, I may just have to ask you to put her over your knee and redden her little fanny for her.” Noooooo! I said silently from my timeout. “She’d need to cross more than a few lines for me to do that, and you know I won’t ever tattle on Daphne …” Score! “… unless she really goes above and beyond with her naughtiness. And then I’ll be sure to let you know. Won’t be the first girl I’ve sent home with a note pinned to her sleeve. I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it.” Did Nana just chuckle? Did Nana just heccin chuckle!?! Hmmph! Hmmph hmmph hmmph! HMMPH!!! ??? I am not a little girl! Really!

I know I’m not posting much, and it’s because I’m finishing up a very big work project, getting my garden ready, and preparing for a major surgery. But the good news is I’ll have 3 weeks off from work and will try to write during that time provided I’m not in too much pain or too high from the meds ?

Scene #169 “Daffy,” someone said, very rudely interrupting my nap even if they were sorta softly singing my nickname. And not just my nap, but the puppy’s too. Doesn’t Mary know the puppy is just a baby and needs her rest? Which is nothing like me, an adult who needs her rest because, well, you need a lot of sleep in your thirties, for some reason. “Hi,” I said. “Come with me.” “But I have a warm puppy on me.” True story. She was sleeping on me. I think she likes me, so I got two awesome women who like me. Maybe even like like me. Heehee! So it took exactly two weeks for me to get over being anxious about having a dog. We’re buddies. “And we’re going to have a little talk about responsible puppy care.” Well, a ‘little talk’ is one of those phrases that snaps me out of the deepest stupor. Setting aside my well-founded reservations, I set the pupper down and followed my lovely wife to the kitchen. Here’s a secret for you – I love following her cuz, and I know this is a shocker, I’m a fan of butts. And yet when we reached the kitchen and she turned around, gone was the wakey-wakey-sleepy-girl face from which came the dulcet tone of her singing my name. I can always tell when she’s irked cuz she makes her I-am-irked face. That, and the tone she uses when she’s gotten the ridiculous idea that whatever is irking her must be my fault. I mean, even when I am the thing irking her, it’s still not my fault. I even told her once that we can’t control other people’s behavior, only our emotional response, so if she was feeling irked, that was on her. That’s just facts. But they were not well received, and she did a helluva demonstration showing who can control what. Besides, I’m a ray of sunshine. How could I ever be irksome? Can’t. Really. “Daphne,” Mary said to me, “do you have something you want to tell me?” As a matter o’ fact, I didn’t, but when she asks me that, it’s very rarely a random question. Whatever she thinks I have to tell her, I’m better off just telling her something else entirely cuz sometimes she thinks very spurious things about who did what and what the consequence should be. Very spurious indeed. So I naturally, exactly because I am a ray of sunshine and care about her and knew it would help her to redirect her attention, responded, “Um, the Gay Men’s Choir is having their craft fair at Redwood Park this weekend. I thought we’d go look at stuff, get a hotdog.” Something about the park makes hotdogs taste better . And gay men and crafting? Fuhgeddaboudit. They make the best stuff. Plus it would be full of gay people, which is always eight kinds of fun. “Daphne, look down.” My eyes followed Mary’s the floor. O come on! How much can such a small dog pee so much?!? That’s the second time she’s peed inside just today! “Now tell me the truth,” Mary said with her faux earnest face on, “is that your puddle, or the dog’s?” She’s so friggin faux sometimes. But I’d heard that joke before. Several times. And I didn’t like it those times either. “Mary, I swear to god, you make that joke one time and I’m gonna launch my entire body at you.” “And do what? The last time your tried to pounce on me, you just bounced off.” “So now I know what not to do.” “Try to be big?” “Akdienfowsj, Mary!” Akdienfowsj indeed. “You still haven’t answered me.” “It’s the dog’s! There, are you happy now?” “I’m not happy at all. We need to get to the bottom of this right now.” Ooo, so that phrase ‘get to the bottom’ is, uh, never good and often prelude to (bottom) stuff. And Mary sure did seem, all of a sudden, as serious as a very serious person (why are they always so serious? Lighten up!) “Do you need me to show you how to clean it up?” “Stupid rhetorical question,” I mumbled but not mumbly enough cuz Mary swatted my butt when I passed her on the way to the paper towels. At least she peed on the tile this time. I wiped it up, threw away the paper towels, and washed my hands, all under the watchful eye of Captain Mary Sour-Face. She was making way too big a deal out of this. Puppies have accidents. “I’ll go take her out again,” I told Mary and got all of one step before Mary took me by the upper arm. “Not so fast. We’re not done talking.” She reached behind her to get something off the counter, which is when I said, “We don’t need the wooden spoon to talk!” “We do for this kinda talk.” “You can’t be serious!?! It was an accident!” “The puppy had an accident. You were negligent.” “In what possible f-(smack) ow!” “Language, little girl. Do you wanna get your mouth washed out too?” “No, but I didn’t do anything.” “Exactly,” Her Royal Butt Tenderizer pronounced like that heccin meant anything. She sat down on a kitchen chair, and then – get this – she just yanked my shorts and panties right to the floor. Who even does that? Spanking someone on their bare bottom? A very new and off-putting experience for me … and stuff. Really. But if Mary wasn’t going to have any manners or dignity, I had dignity to spare. “Marrry! I didn’t do anything and this isn’t fair and you can’t spank me for something the dog did and I can too stomp my feet if I want to!” Super dignified … and stuff. Super really. Sigh … Not like I was feeling insecure about the prospect of becoming the whipping girl for our puppy, but, ya know, let’s not ever let that come to pass. “Are you done having a temper tantrum,” Mary asked me calmly. I wish just once she’d be the least bit perturbed by one of my righteous soliloquies, which she insists on referring to as tantrums. “For now,” I didn’t pout with my arms crossed. “Over my knee.” “Make me!” Which she then did (with distressing ease). “That was rhetorical, Mary! I can be rhetorical too!” Like she’s queen of the heccin rhetoric or something. What the heccin heck? “Daphne Ann, you will stop struggling, close your lips, and open your ears right now, or I’ll take you upstairs and spank your bottom with the hairbrush. Is that you want? … I asked you a question: is that what you want?” O my god, one damn more rhetorical question. I gotta break her of that habit somehow. But I chose to just say (pouted, actually, but only because I’m ever so put upon), “No.” Btw, is it still a rhetorical question if she demands an actual answer? I say yes cuz the answer is so friggin obvious … or it would be if not for all the times I enthusiastically answered yes to that question … but those don’t count because reasons … and stuff. True story. “When I’m working, you need to be watching the puppy more closely and taking her out to potty. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but she hasn’t had a single accident in the house when I’m not working.” “But it was. An. Accident! You don’t spank people for stuff they don’t do on purpose.” It’s just not done in polite circles, but try telling that to Miss Mary Rude … Person whose lap I was splayed over. And actually, she is so damn classy, but in that moment, she was being quite the troglodyte. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with her about her manners, but I always remember at the worst possible moment to bring it up and then forget it in the ensuing chaos. “If you had an accident on the floor, I wouldn’t spank you for it, just like I never spank you for the tinkle accidents you have in your diapers.” “They’re not mine, and they’re not accidents!” … Hey Daphne, shut up. I’m begging you, who is me, to just shut up. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, little girl, but you didn’t have an accident. The dog had an accident. You were negligent in taking the dog out.” “That’s just mean. I take great care of our puppy.” “Wonderful care of the puppy, but bad care of our floors. You’re getting a sore bottom, and you’re going to get another sore bottom every time the puppy piddles in the house. Let’s see if a red fanny will remind you to take her out.” And then with the spanking without even, ya know, a warning. What is even with her sometimes? “I remem-ow!-ber. She stares – ow! – at me and then – ouch – comes insides and – eep! – pees on the -stop that! – floor! Stop it!” “I decide when your spankings are over, little girl.” “Well how ‘bout now?” Me, defiant? Never. Me, sassy? So rarely as to be all but nonexistent. Indignant? Heck yeah I was indignant, and I had zero intention of going down without a (verbal) fight. And therein lies my strategic error – I brought words and logic to this fight, whereas Mary brought her physical prowess, feminine wiles, the almost mystical sway she holds over me, and that damn wooden spoon. I hate that thing! Mary can just flick that thing against my butt twice a heccin second without her wrist even tiring. It weighs like an ounce and a half. How can it pack so much wallop?!? Stingy little balsa bitch should stick to stirring stuff and leave my butt alone! But trying telling that to Miss Mary Spoon-Maiden. Which I did, and it went like this. “Mary! Mary! Ouch. Stop! This is not what spoons are for!!!” “Is that your way of telling me you want to get a special spoon just for spanking?” “That’s not what I meant! Owie!” O my god. Just o. My. God. Daphne, did you really just say owie? What’s wrong with you today? Maybe it’s been too long since you got spanked. It’s just the spoon. To which I say, shut up, Brain! “Good,” Mary sassed me (can you believe she sassed me? Me!?!), “because the middle of a spanking is a terrible time to ask for a new toy.” I’m telling ya’ll for real, Mary has highly selective hearing and/or a deviously motivated way of interpreting things. And the hypocrite (there – I finally said it!) has accused me of selective hearing more than a time or three. I mean, she was right some of those times. And the other ones, I heard and chose to ignore what she said but that’s not even the point because reasons. “I think, little Miss Tiny Butt …” “You ow take that ow back! Eep! I have a great butt!” It’s very shapely and womanly. One of the few curves on my otherwise slender body in which I still get mistaken for a twenty-something sometimes. And when I was a twenty-something, I got mistaken for a college student. And when I was a college student, sometimes on campus people asked me if I was lost and offered to help me find my mom. Dammit … “I think,” Mary continued (know who loves to continue? Mary), “that it will go a long way helping you to behave if other people know you still get spanked.” “Eep! Stop that! Eeeep! That stings!!!” My thighs! My poor thighs. “Those aren’t for spanking!” “They are for spanking, and the spoon leaves such pretty red welts on the back of them. Everybody who’s ever wielded a spanking spoon knows what those look like, and you are officially forbidden from wearing pants until they go away.” “That’s just mean! Mean! And I can wear what I want!” “I can pull them down for a spanking just as fast as you can put them on.” “Urgh!” “All this backtalk I’m getting is telling me this spanking isn’t even close to getting through.” I will not be silenced! But sometimes I will choose – as an agent of my own fate – to shut up. Which I did. Chose to. Very brave act. Really. “Is that silence a sign of contrition?” Like she’s gonna trick me into me in saying something. Doesn’t even work … anymore. She set the spoon down and rubbed my butt with some squeezing thrown in lagniappe. Like that makes up more than almost all the injustice I’d just suffered. “Are you ready to talk some more,” she asked me like it was ever my idea to not talk. “Sit up for me … What’s this,” she asked when I sat up and faced her. Looked her right in the eye, too, cuz I’m afraid of her (actually kinda definitely hopelessly in love with her). She reached out and wiped a tear away with her thumb. O, the things she can do with her thumbs. “I spanked you to tears.” “Tear,” I moped, “Singular. Just the one.” Like, geez, exercise a little humility and don’t be too proud of yourself. Excellent it’s just allergies cuz pollen. Really. “You sound like a pouty princess. Are you gonna be a pouty princess?” I hadn’t decided yet, but I took a moment to make up my mind. “… Hmmph.” Bet you can’t guess what I decided. “Save some, because we’re not done yet.” “Marrry! I don’t want any more spanking.” “You didn’t want the first one, and if you’re a good girl …” “Mary!” What the hell?!? “Sorry. You’re always a good girl.” Did you hear that? She thinks I’m always a good girl. She loves me and stuff. Sigh … “If,” she continued, and I swear if she keeps continuing to continue … “If you remember to make choices like the good girl I know you are, there won’t be any more spanking today. Will you try extra hard for me?” “Stop babying me,” I said to her as I – like an adult! – leaned forward and rested my head on her shoulder. I was quite vexed what with the spanking and the rubbing (and squeezing!) and the button pushing. “If that’s what you want, sweetie. Let’s go get your diaper on.” “What? Seriously?” “Of course seriously. You know you always wet yourself after a spanking,” she actually said (grr!) as she led me by the wrist up to our bedroom. I know nothing of the kind, and she knows I know nothing of the kind, and I know she knows I know nothing of the kind! That’s called slander, so I mumbled, “Slander.” “What was that?” “Slander,” I said clearly. “That’s what I thought. Lay down on the bed.” I did, and who should come into my field of vision? The furry little pee-anywhere anarchist whose fault this was! “Mary, close the door, she’s looking at me.” “Such a silly girl.” “Seriously, she’s laughing at me.” I wasn’t projecting my emotions onto a dog, by the way. Not me cuz that would be ridiculous and I’m the least ridiculous person I know. Really. “Well, she does kinda look like she’s smiling. Aren’t you? Aren’t you smiling at your mommy and her little girl? Yes you are! A-yes you are!” “Don’t encourage her. This is all her fault. Puppy, get her! Get Mary!” Can’t get her to pee outside, can’t get her to sic Mary. All very disconcerting for an all-powerful wonder woman like myself. “I don’t want her watching.” “Daffy, you’re just going to have to get over that because we don’t keep secrets in this house. Do we? No we don’t. No we don’t keep secrets. A-no we don’t.” “Stop talking to me like a dog … Or at least wait longer after talking to her that way.” “Did that make you uncomfortable or jealous?” “… No.” Mary’s o-really face with her right eyebrow climbing her forehead like Alex Honnold on a rock. As if! “Where are my manners,” she said. “Been meaning to ask you that for like, forever.” “You’ve been laying there with your pink bottom on display probably needing to tinkle all this time, and here I am holding your diaper.” “It’s been forty seconds.” And I did have to pee, but purely coincidental. I did just wake up from a nap, after all. “Which is a very long time for a little girl to be holding her weewee.” It’s distressing how quickly Mary can tape me into a diaper. That’s undoubtedly the result of practice, which is just so not cool. It wasn’t that long ago that when she put me in a diaper, she used the nursery cream and took her time with it. But however many assaults against my adulthood later, it’s gotten much more utilitarian. The cream is for special occasions and bedtime, apparently, not that I wear these things to bed very often … My life is weird. “Sit up for me,” she said and helped me up, then sat down next to me and motioned for me to climb into her lap. Good thing I like it there or I would’ve … obeyed. Dammit. “So here’s the thing, Daffodil. It’s been two weeks, and she isn’t any better at peeing outside than when she got here. So until she’s potty trained, you’re not potty trained either.” “What!?! Kernoffler furnamuffin and that’s urterwingen and so gurstufirder and mean! Just mean!” “Don’t look at it that way. Look at it as a chance for you to brush up on your own potty skills.” O. My. God. Which, because I’m the agent of my destiny and brave and powerful, came out as, “(Whimper). You can’t be serious.” “You can still use the potty for the other thing, but Daffy, if she has just one poopy accident in the house …” “No!” “So.” “You are such a butthead sometimes.” “You mad at me?” “Yeah.” “Is that why you’re snuggling in closer?” “That’s one reason.” “What’s the oth … you’re peeing on me.” “(Silence) … I had to go when you woke me up.” “You mean you’re not waking up to pee on your own anymore? Are you becoming a bedwetter?” “Stopppp!” Keep pushing buttons and one of them is gonna get stuck like that! “Are you feeling motivated to get the dog housebroken yet?” “Shut up.” “Gonna watch her like a hawk and take her out every twenty minutes?” “Every ten.” “Good girl.” “Damn right, and you’re still a butthead.” “Spanked little girls in wet diapies say the most emotional thing.” “Eat farts, Mary.” And then she kissed me! True story. She’s a chaos demon … a very pretty one I’m pledged to for life, which I’m heccin incredibly over the moon happy about, and I’d write more about it, but I need to go google how to potty train a dog in less than an hour.

Puppy names still needed!

This is the best compliment I think I’ve ever gotten as a writer ??

I found a video of the sound Daphne makes when Mary calls her a good girl ☺️??

Scene #168 It’s a heccin good thing I’m independent and reliant on no one but myself, cuz otherwise when I rolled over in bed and didn’t find my comfort person, I would’ve been very upset. But nope, not me. I was merely curious where she went until my very pretty ears (so says the person who nibbles on them on) and very good hearing (so says the same person who likes to bring that up when I’ve allegedly not been listening) detected a soft sound coming up from our living room. I tip-toed downstairs in the dark and heard the dulcet tones of my Mary singing. Goodnight, my angel Now it's time to dream And dream how wonderful Your life will be Someday your child may cry And if you sing this lullaby Then in your heart There will always be a part of me My Mary sings very well, though I’m not sure if that’s objectively true or I just love her so much and stuff that I just think she sings very well. I turned the corner into our living room and there she was, sitting next to a sleeping puppy wrapped in a blanket. Mary couldn’t have not noticed me when I came in, but she didn’t stop singing. I sat down next to her and waited for her to be done before whispering, “Do you sing that song to everyone their first night living with you?” “You wake this puppy, Daphne Ann, and I’ll spank your bare bottom,” was her reply. Hmm. So … wasn’t expecting that. I mean, I was whispering. Granted, I’m not great at whispering, which apparently is a skill I haven’t mastered, but I wasn’t any louder than Miss Mary Sing-Song. “Rude,” I whispered back even more softly. “She just fell asleep again.” “I feel kinda bad for her,” I said. “She must miss her mom and brothers and sisters so much. And she was shaking so hard almost all the way home.” I leaned my head on Mary’s shoulder and held her arm. “But I feel happy for her, cuz she has you.” And I’m an expert on how awesome it is to have Mary. Make me shudder just thinking about it. “She has you, too.” And o my gawd, cuz Mary turned and kissed my hair. O heck with the heccin feels. “So do you sing that song to everyone on the first night they move in with you?” “What do you mean?” “You sang me that song the first night we lived together. In bed, before we fell asleep.” “I didn’t remember what song it was. I guess I do, since you two are the only ones I’ve ever lived with. Doesn’t make you jealous, does it?” “Heehee. No.” At least, I don’t think so. Not yet. Not that I ever get jealous. Really. “Tell me more about that night. Our first night living together.” “We spent the whole day moving my stuff into storage and your apartment, and we were sweaty and gross.” “Mhmm.” “And your neighbor across the hall was super helpful cuz he was so obviously wanting to ask me out.” Mary giggled. “Poor Joshua. The man had no gaydar at all.” “Yeah, but as a consolation prize he got to go to bed thinking about what the lesbian neighbors were doing. Not that I’m judging cuz that’s the same thing I’d be doing if we had lesbian neighbors.” “My hypersexual Daffodil.” “I’m not hypersexual, Mary. I’m homosexual.” She let out a “Ha!” before stifling herself down to a suppressed chuckle, but not before she snorfed (snort-laughed; I make portmanteaus sometimes). “We can’t wake the puppy,” she whispered again. “Then stop snorfing,” I whispered back. “Snort-laughing. I made a new word just now.” Just got that out there preemptively cuz Mary had huh-what? face. “What happened next?” “We ordered Gino’s and ate pizza and drank beer on the balcony.” “And you waved hello to everybody who walked by,” Mary added. “I was getting to know my new neighbors.” “And then when we were done eating, we crashed. Completely out of energy as soon as the food hit our bellies.” “We took a shower together.” “No funny business.” “And we got in bed, and you appointed yourself the big spoon.” “You appointed yourself the little spoon.” “And you sang me that song.” Mary turned and kissed my hair again. “You are, you know.” “What?” “My angel. That’s what you are.” “No you,” I answered cuz she so heccin is! Mary, guardian angel, ninja, sorceress, coyote, computer something or other, love of my life. We sat in silence for a moment watching our puppy sleep. We have a puppy together. Still hard to believe, like woah, hey teen bride, that’s such a big step for a married couple in their thirties. You sure you're ready? And so much cuteness! I had already made peace that until the dog reached her awkward adolescent phase, I wouldn’t be the cutest thing in the house. “You were awfully cute today at the rescue,” Mary told me as though she can read my mind. She might be able to; she is a sorceress, as I’ve said. Would explain how she always stays a couple steps ahead of me despite my preternatural knack for strategizing and subterfuge. If I wasn’t a homemaker, I’d probably be a spymaster or something. Really. But back to the rescue. “The swarmed me all at once. I was knocked off my feet,” I reminded her. She must’ve forgotten cuz I told her that at the rescue. “Really? Because to me it looked like maybe you were hoping to have puppies crawling all over you and licking your face.” “Who wouldn’t?” I’ve never wanted to be at the bottom of a pile before, but so many puppies! It’s like the physical manifestation of uwu just all over you with the terminal adorability and puppy breath and puppy toes and puppy eyes! Oof! “You know you flashed your diaper to that woman?” “Aw geez.” That stings. “Seriously?” “Super seriously. Your skirt rode almost all the way up while you were rolling around on the ground.” “Did she say anything?” “Nope. I just saw her do a double take, but she didn’t say anything. I didn’t think you’d want me making an even bigger scene by saying something like, ‘Daffodil, what did we say about showing strangers your Pampers? That’s not how you’re supposed to tell me you’re wet.’” “You wanted to, though, didn’t you?” I’m on to her. “I so wanted to.” “Thanks for not telling me. I’d have been too embarrassed to enjoy picking out our puppy together after that.” A lot to pick from, and I said to the woman, “Are these all of them?” “There’s one still inside. She’s shy.” “Can we see her?” “Of course. They shy ones always get picked last, but they outgrow it with the right family.” And Mary, brushing the dust and grass off me, put her arm around me, and we followed the woman inside. (Know what stinks? The room nine puppies live in.) We sat down on the floor near the puppy, and we called to it and patted the floor and held out a treat and a toy … and she didn’t budge. “What do you think,” Mary asked me. “I think we should pick her.” “My dad always said you should let your dog pick you,” Mary said, nodding toward her across the room, sitting there shaking (the puppy, not Mary). “Yeah, but it’s just because she’s scared of strangers. We won’t be strangers by tomorrow.” “You’re sure?” “Mhmm. If you are. It was your idea.” Mary looked me right in the eye and made her you’re-too-sweet face at me. “You don’t want her to get picked last, and you wanna be the one who helps her come out of her shell.” “I want us to help her come out of her shell.” “Yeah,” Mary said, “but it’s literally all I can do to keep just a little of you in your shell.” “Not even. It’s all I can do to keep you from running away with what’s left of my shell.” It sure as heck wasn’t my idea to spank me in dressing room at the mall (or the many, many times and places thereafter … well, some of them were my idea … okay, insistence, but whatever). And that’s how we picked out the puppy. “You think of a name yet,” I asked Mary. “Still not sure.” “Me neither. Should we try to put her back in her crate,” I yawned. “She’ll wake up and start crying again if we do.” “She’s gotta get used to it at some point.” “Yeah, but she’s had a hard enough day. I’ll stay down here if you wanna go back up to bed.” “How about I bring a couple pillows down?” “Even better.” I got halfway to the stairs and turned around, looking at Mary looking at the puppy. I resolved to relent: if she wants to call herself a dog mom, I won’t make fun. Having things to take care of just makes her so happy. _______ I'm choosing this ferocious uwu beast as the model for their puppy. What should we name her? If people send suggestions, I'll set up a poll so everyone can vote.

?I love your silliness ?

Scene #167 “Are you nervous,” I asked my Mary. “A little. You?” “O my gawd yes … I mean, a smidge … What? You’re looking at me funny again.” “No particular reason.” “Don’t roll your eyes while driving.” “Why not,” she scoffed at me. Scoffing! At me! Ridiculous. That’s what she is. “I dunno. My mom told me it’s dangerous.” “When?” “When she was teaching me how to drive … O, she just wanted me to stop rolling my eyes at her, didn’t she?” I remember it cuz she, um, said it a lot when I was learning how to drive. The woman had some saintly patience during that formative experience. And I’m great at picking up subtext now, much better than when I was seventeen (yes, I didn’t get my license til I was seventeen; I was very wise for my age, wise enough to value the privilege of being chauffeured). “God, you are so perfectly adorable sometimes.” Not to be telling tales outta school or nothin’, but my wife thinks I’m perfectly adorable sometimes. So I got that going for me. Also got impending puppy syndrome, which would resolve itself into chronic puppy ownership syndrome within hours. I say syndrome because it’s a collection of symptoms rather than a disease: anxiety, puppy love, anxiety, chewed furniture, anxiety, possible the only thing in the world that could love me more than Mary. I wonder if Mary realizes she was bringing the competition into our home. “You do realize you’re going to have to compete with the puppy, right,” I asked her. “What do you mean?” “The puppy will love me unconditionally, and you love me unconditionally. One of you might get jealous.” “Are you flirting with me?” “Yes.” I’ve been told if you have to tell someone that you’re flirting with them, then you’re not very good at flirting. But I think Mary likes to ask just cuz it puts me on the defensive, where we both like me to be. Must be so much work being dominant. Every time I put on bossy pants, I can’t wait to take them off again. “How abut if every time I buy the puppy a present, I buy one for you too?” “That’s an excellent idea. Best idea ever. I like presents.” “But they’ll come from the same store.” “But what would a puppy do with jewelry?” Touché! “I told you I’d buy you a diamond-studded collar, but you have to wear it everyday.” “It wouldn’t go with my yoga pants.” Yep, that’s the reason I’m sticking with not wearing a jeweled dog collar. “Tell me why we’re driving all the way out here to get a puppy when we could’ve waited for the next adoption day at the farmers’ market?” “Because Lisa’s friend runs this rescue, and one of their rescue dogs came in pregnant and had her litter. We’ll get first pick. Plus a little country air won’t hurt us. Speaking of…” Mary got off the highway, much to the disappointment of the lady who narrates directions in her phone. I had a feeling, let’s just say, that Mary had something extra planned. She’s always plotting things. It’s one of the qualities I like about her most. Plus I saw the picnic blanket in the back and made an educated guess that underneath was a picnic basket. I could do Sherlock Holmes’ job easy; I don’t even need a Watson to boss around, which would work out cuz I’m not especially bossy. Really. “Where are we going,” I asked because an inquisitive like that. “I’m not sure. Somewhere secluded.” “You’re just … driving down this road hoping to find a secluded spot?” She’s very alpha; not quite like her to not have more of a plan. “I’m just looking for a good picnic spot.” “We passed a sign for a park two exits up.” “A park wouldn’t be very secluded, now would it, sweetie?” Don’t you heccin condescend to me! But also yes please. “Why? What’s gonna happen?” Mary looked at me with her just-you-wait eyes and said, “As a little girl I know would say, ‘Stuff and things.’” O my. Not just stuff, but things also? “Aren’t we going to be late?” “No. I told her told her between 1:30 and 2:00.” “You told me noon.” See? She’s always plotting and planning stuff. We’re not exhibitionists, mostly. If we were, she wouldn’t the looking for someplace secluded. I had an inkling, though, we were going to be trespassing, cuz it looked like fallow farmland. “It may be secluded, but it’s not exactly private.” We could see quite a ways, and two people doing stuff and things would be, um, noticeable. “We just need to find a little stand of trees.” And we did, a narrow strip of woods dividing two fields. Had to be someone’s land, but where the entrance to it was, I don’t know. We didn’t pass it. Mary just pulled onto the shoulder, checked the side mirror before getting out, and said, “This is perfect.” She got the picnic blanket and basket from the back, and I followed her to the edge of the trees, where we set up just inside the line tree line. It wasn’t entirely private, but we were mostly hidden from the road.. It was a good spot for a picnic, provided no angry farmers showed up. It was sunny, the ground was flat and soft, and there was just enough breeze to stay cool. Mary in her sundress and me in my springtime cutest skirt and top, on a picnic blanket in an empty field just sorta had this 1940s movie starlet vibe, except gay. Very gay. “What did you bring for lunch,” I asked e en though I wasn’t hungry. We had breakfast and it was only 10:30. “You.” “Mary! You’re making me blush.” “I brought some snacks,” she said, “but first I want to talk a little bit.” “About what? Am in trouble?” “Nope. I just wanted to say thank you again for agreeing to do this, and I wanted to ask again if you’re sure you’re good with it.” “I am. Really.” “But maybe a little anxious?” “Yeah. Like, we’re going to have to keep this puppy alive. What if it gets out of the backyard and runs away? What if it gets sick? Who will take care of it when we’re out of town? So yeah, a little anxious. And …” Dammit. I told you not to say anything about this. “What?” “Nothing. That’s it.” “You’re fibbing. You know what fibbers get?” Eep. Yes, I do. “I was just thinking that, one day, and I know it’s a long time away, we’ll lose our puppy, and … it’ll be very hard.” Dammit! You made Mary make a sad face. “O, sweetie, c’mere.” We scooched closer, and Mary put her arm around me. I put mine around her and rested my head on her shoulder. I know it’s stupid to be thinking years and years ahead to how sad I’ll be when the dog is gone, but, well, that’s what anxiety is like sometimes. And I know it’ll be worth it, that the dog will make us very happy, but my catastrophizing mind wants to poke that bubble and think instead of all the things that could go wrong and how one day it’ll break my heart. But I also know that broken hearts mend, and that if we’re forever afraid of what we’ll lose, we’ll never muster the courage to love anything. And it does take courage. “My sweet Daffodil. I know, but that’s a long time away, and it’ll bring so much happiness into our lives.” “I know. It’s just my anxiety talking. It tells me lies.” “You’re sure you’re sure, though?” “Yeah. A little pupper to play with. I do have some ground rules, though.” I’d seen the way Mary was looking at pictures of puppies. I know my Mary; I know how her mind works. “It’s so cute that you wanna try to make rules. What are they?” “No dressing it up. We’re not referring to ourselves as ‘dog moms’ or calling it out ‘fur baby.’ And it’s only allowed to sleep in our bed if it doesn’t stop us from snuggling.” “You’re so adorable.” “I’m serious. I wanna roll over and spoon my Mary, not roll over and find a dog beat me to it.” “Okay. It can’t sleep in our bed unless if it gets in between us.” “And the other rules?” “We’ll see.” “That means no.” Remember childhood and being told ‘we’ll see’? Nine times out of ten that meant no. “We’ll see,” she said as she – get how rude she is – tickled my side. Hmmph! Which I pronounced, “Heehee!” “I’m gonna have two bellies to rub.” “Another rule: no implicitly comparing me to the dog.” “Does that mean you’ve outgrown belly rubs?” “Of course not. Don’t be silly.” She mock gasped. “Me silly?!? Such a disrespectful little girl! I have half a mind to give you a spanking right here and now.” “Well, I have half a mind to let you.” “You know what happens next.” As matter of well established fact, I do. I put myself over her lap and folded my arms under my chin. Mary flipped my skirt up and peeled my panties down. “You get so mouthy when I let you wear your big girl undies. And you think you’re ready for bikini style.” “I’m ready for all the things.” “See? Big girl undies give you big ideas. But you’re still a little girl.” “I’m not a little girl!” Hmmph! “Is that so?” She, um, worked her hand under me into a, uh, place. “Then where is the hair on your princess parts? Big girls have hair down their.” “Meanie.” SPANK! O heck yes. Like that times a hundred. “A name caller? That’s definitely little girl behavior. Or should I say, misbehavior.” SPANK! “You called me a name first!” SPANK! “What did I call you?” “A little girl. Duh.” “That’s not name calling, Daffy. That’s just a fact. You’re my little girl. Do you know any big girls who get their bottoms spanked on the side of the road?” “Um, yeah, six or seven. You introduced me to most of them.” True story. “Ha!” SPANK SPANK! “Well, you’re still my little girl, and I’m not ever gonna let you grow up.” “Grr.” SPANK! “That’s right. My little girrrl.” SPANK! “Hmmph!” SPANK! “Let’s see if I can’t spank the sass out of you today.” And I gotta give her a gold star for effort. She gave it the ol’ college try. It’s just that the sass is strong in me. Really. “You, little girl, have a very red bottom.” “It feels red (yawn!).” “You tired now!” “Mhmm.” Who doesn’t get sleepy when they have a warm butt? Beats ambien any day. “Hey, Mary? The dog is just gonna hafta get used to seeing me get spanked.” “What?” “I know it might upset it, but we’re confining our okay to the bedroom. The dog is just gonna hafta get used to seeing me get spanked and stuff.” “You think it’ll upset it?” “It might. It’ll get over it the more it’s exposed to it though.” I could feel Mary chuckling. You can feel just about everything a person does when you’re laid over their lap. “Then I guess someone is gonna be in for a lot of sore bottoms for a while.” “O heavens no (yawn).” “Naughty little munchkin. Hold still.” While I was holding still, this Mary person took my shoes off and rolled my panties all the way off. How unusual … for most people. “I think we may just leave this if girl undies here.” “No way. I like those.” “But think of how it’ll tickle the farmer’s imagination when he finds them.” “Heh! But no.” “Fine,” she said like she was so wounded, which she wasn’t. Big faker. “But I’m not giving them back.” “There are worse things than going commando … especially on a breezy day,” I added when the breeze picked up because, well, who wouldn’t enjoy a good airing out? Mary motioned for me to roll off her lap, and just as I was rearranging my skirt, she tutted at me, “Not yet, silly goose. We gotta get you dressed again.” And who would’ve guessed that she would reach into the picnic basket and pull out a diaper. “Yeah,” I said, “there are worse things than going commando, like that.” “Lay back down.” “But that’s one of the crinkly ones.” “All the better to protect your pretty skirt and your socks.” “My socks?” “Mhmm. Just imagine yourself having an accident …” “I never have accidents!” Malicious insinuation started by a woman with a very loose morals (gawd I love her so much!)! “Just,” she repeated like I hadn’t said a word, “imagine yourself having an accident. It would run down your pretty thighs and your o so smooth calves and get your socks and shoes all wet. How embarrassing, right? We’d have to ask Lisa’s friend if she had some clean bottoms for you, and I can just picture her now when I ask her for socks. ‘O,’ she’ll say, ‘so it was a big total flood. Glad my toddlers are past that stage.’ And how embarrassed you’ll be.” I’m not blushing! You are! Nyah! “None of that will happen.” “It will if I make it happen,” she threatened me. Mary and her threats and the way her eyes just light up like o so hopeful I’ll give her the reason she needs to follow through on it. Hot damn is she so sexy. “You can’t make me pee my pants,” I pointed out to her. “No, but I can not let you use the potty. You know I have my doubts about you being ready for the potty. It would be a shame for you if you proved me right. I wonder if I don’t let you go for long enough if paddling your bottom will make you lose control. Do you think Lisa’s friend has ever heard – or seen – a girl your age get her bottom paddled? Maybe she’d want to help.” “Marrry! Stop it.” “Nope.” Ugh. Can you believe she said that? “Fine,” I said as I flopped onto my back and put my arms over my face cuz I needed a moment alone. “Such a good girl when you wanna be.” “You take that back!” “Such a good girl all the time.” “All the times.” “Time.” “Times.” “Such a good girl all the times,” she said to me all patronizing. How rude! But also, yes please. Me? I’m never rude. Really. In fact, I’m not ill mannered or short tempered or bratty or naughty ever. Never have been. Not once in all the times. Really. I even totally cooperated with Mary ash she put that diaper on me, and when she patted the last tape and said, “There. All snug and safe,” I didn’t go hmmph. True story. “Yogi Bear would be so confused and disappointed if he stole our basket.” “I brought snacks too. Here,” she said as she held out her hands to help me sit up. Watching her sort through the basket, I had a notion – an epiphany, an idea – that now would be an excellent time to do to her something she does to me all the time. I mean, we were alone, and it seemed like a good moment. “Mary,” I said, and when she turned to look at me, I did it. I pounced on her. And bounced off. Dammit … “Are you okay,” she asked me as I sat up and pretended like I meant for that to happen. Which I did, actually, for the record. I’m smooth like that, totally collected and in control of myself and y surroundings. So … I meant to do that. Really. “O my god, how are you so sturdy,” I asked. Which is when she started laughing. Hmmph! “What were you trying to do?” “Pounce on you … like you do on me … and then we do things and stuff.” “Honey, you’re too little to pounce on me.” “Am not!” Hard to be that offended cuz she looked so happy. Ya know something? I think Mary was having one of her best days. Sigh … I’m so happy when she’s happy. “We can practice pouncing later this week. I’ll show you how to do it like a big girl.” “Hmmph. I was gonna put my head up your dress. I was promised stuff and things.” “And you got your bottom spanked and put in one of your pretty diapers.” “Like that even counts. Don’t start the engine if you’re not gonna drive the car.” “Wanna cookie?” “Ooo, yes please.” What? I’m not easily distracted any more than I’m easy to please. “Two hands please.” “What?” “Hold it with two hands,” Mary repeated, accompanied by pantomiming as thought I were new to using language. “Why?” “Cuz you’re so little. You don’t wanna drop your cookie on the ground, do you?” “Marrry!” “Heehee!” “It’s a good thing dogs can’t talk. This one is gonna have so many secrets.” “And they don’t judge either, especially little girls.” Well, I didn’t respond to that for a moment, a long enough pause for Mary to actually say me, “I bet you feel so much better piddling a potty puddle in your pampers.” “Was not!” Ooo, Mary’s o-really face. “I was gonna go behind a tree before we left, but you just had to put your special underwear on me.” “You could’ve asked to go potty first. If you don’t tell me when you need to go, I don’t think you’ll ever make it out of diapers full time.” To which I responded by giving her my unimpressed face. A borderline sneer, in fact, very aggressive for a sub, so yeah, I took a risk. I’m a risk taker. I’m brave … and stuff. “Lemme feel,” she said. Coulda predicted that. “Ooo, such a warm, wet potty pillow between your thighs, but you don’t need a change yet.” “Are you having a good day,” I asked her. She nodded her head. “Mhmm. Thanks for letting me tease you. I’ll make it up to you after the puppy is in bed … Ha!” “What?” “I just had a thought. When we get there, all those dogs will be snoofing. Wouldn’t surprise me if you got some extra attention when they smell your peepee pants.” Aw crud! She’s probably right! “Marrry!” “Aww. It’s okay. They won’t tell anyone.” “We should get going. I don’t wanna be late.” “My good little rule follower. Can you get your shoesies back on yourself?” “I’m telling the puppy all about the ways you mistreat me.” “I dote on you.” “Yeah … dammit.” And she laughed at that. I love hearing my Mary laugh. I love making her happy. So off we went to pick out a puppy.

Um, I don’t know if you know this cuz it’s kinda a secret, but Daffy isn’t a little girl ? Maybe she was so embarrassed she hid it from everyone. Or maybe she liked it so much but couldn’t bear to admit it to Mary.

Maybe Daffy’s already taken the plunge but was so embarrassed that she didn’t write a journal entry ablut it ?

Scene #166 “Wakey wakey,” this annoying person said to me. For serious. “Did I ever tell you your morning perkiness is one of your worst traits,” I grumbled as I sat up in bed. Seriously one of her worst traits, leavened only by the way she looks in the morning, all hot and adoring and excited and stuff. It’s not her perkiness that bothers me; it’s the hour and that it’s direct at me when I’m definitely not perky. “Just for that, I’m gonna be mean to you today.” “No, you’re too nice for that.” “Even the times you call me mean?” “Especially when I call you mean, except for also yes, kinda mean those times.” Really. “Then let’s see how you feel about this: today’s the day.” “What day?” “The day you finally poop your diaper. Get excited!” “What!?! No way! I’m … No! I won’t! I’ll … I’ll … run away from home first!” I’m not hyperventilating! You are! And stuff! And things! And no! Just no! “Daffy? April Fools.” “Mean! Mean Mary!” Mean Mary who’s looking at me with her pre-pouncing look. She always looks that way when she’s about to – “Oof!” – pounce on me. “You’re very wound up today.” “No you!” That’s it; it’s official – I’m a bad influence on my wife. And I’ll tell you this for free: she was all on top of me and necking me and stuff with the hands all over all the places and things. “Marrrryyy, heehee! What’s gotten (smooch) into you?” Not that I was complaining. If she woke up this kind of perky, I wouldn’t mind it so much. I’d have bruises from her pinning my shoulders to the bed like she was doing, but I wouldn’t mind those either. Who would bother showing off a hickey when they can point to a bruise and say, ‘This is where my dominant goddess wife pinned me down while she did stuff to me … gay stuff.’ Yep, that’s a story I’d tell every single time. “I’m just excited for today.” “Why? What’s special about today?” “I took the day off. Last minute decision.” “What are we gonna woah!” Just flipping me over whenever it suits her. The woman loses all her manners when she’s a certain kind of excited. “What are you doing back there,” I ventured to ask as she peeled my pajama bottoms down. “This.” EEP! Teeth! Teeth biting my butt! She’s a butt biter. Has been ever since I’ve known her. As for me, I gave her a piece of my mind and just flat out told her, “(Happy shuddering noises.)” “One of these days, Daffy,” she said when she let me go. “Wh-youch!” “One of these days I’m gonna gobble you all up.” “Ouch! Heehee! Butt biter.” “Just for that, I’m gonna … (gay snarfing sounds).” “Yeebus! Marrryyy, that one hurt!” “And now I’ll make it all better.” If this is what her hormones do when she’s puppy pregnant … o my god what if we were having an actual baby? I might not survive it, but what a way to go!

I’m realizing now that my kink brain may have been overwhelming my normal brain and making me mistake this story for the one I described above. Short version is a woman always felt she should be blind, made her case to a psychologist, and with the psychologists help, she was blinded.

I recall hearing a story once, probably here, about someone working with a psychiatrist to get diagnosed with body dismorphia as a result of being continent, and the psychiatrist made the case to a surgeon, and the surgeon did the operation. I'm not sure what surgery that would be, however, that didn't lead to unintended consequences like impotence. And of course no idea if it was true.

Scene #165 “Diaper, could you come here?” Did I hear my Mary right? “Diaper?” What is she even … I hear footfalls. “Diaper, I was calling for you,” Mary said as she stood in the doorway. “Um, huh?” “Diaper, you silly goose. Fine,” she said as she walked from the doorway to the basket of changing supplies under the side table, “I can get my Diaper into a new diaper right where she is.” She sounds happy. I like her happy and stuff, but I have reasons to be suspicious of that little lilt in her voice. “C’mon, Diaper. Lay down all the way.” “What is happening right now?” “I’m changing my Diaper.” O. My. Gawd! “So you finally admit it’s yours! Ha!” “Ooo, such an excitable little Diaper. Of course you’re all mine.” “Mary, you’re being … “No, you’re being goofy little crinkle pants. Lie all the way down so we can get you into dry pampers, Diaper.” “What?” I think she left a word or something out of that sentence. “Diaper, enough of this silliness. Are you gonna let me change you or do you wanna sit in your peepee until you leak?” What is she … Did she … O hell no! “Did you just call me ‘Diaper?’” “Of course I did, Diaper. That’s your new nickname. I’m gonna make sure everyone we know calls you Diaper from now on.” “Marrryy!! That’s mean!” “Diaper is so fussy today. We have to hurry.” “Why do we hafta hurry,” I asked as I did my darndest to make her sense my displeasure. “The courthouse closes at four.” “Why are we … I don’t even wanna know. I’m not playing along with your nonsense.” I’m in charge of nonsense, and I’m better at it too! She’s too dominant to do nonsense. She’s never even uwu’d! “So we can officially change your name to Diaper and get remarried with your pretty new name, Diaper.” “That’s the stupidest joke you’ve ever (squawking noises) and don’t ever call (caribou stampede) and so help me I’ll (angry hyena snarls) and you can suck a (so many explosions) just no! Bad! Bad Mary! Poor choice! You’re making poor choices! Naughty, bad Mary! Bad!” Apropos of nothing, I don’t think I’m ever too dramatic. I think I’m just the right amount of dramatic. And if you or anyone, including Mary, doesn’t like it, then stop pushing my buttons and shush. Yeah, I said ‘shush!’ So there … and stuff. Really. “Aww, is my little Diaper grouchy cuz she didn’t get her nap-nap? Does my Diaper need a nappy?” She’s giggling! She thinks this is fun! We’ll see if she still thinks that if I hit her with my emu! I reared back my bird, and as I swung it forward with all my might, I bellowed, “Watch out, Mary! Here comes my emu!” I woke up on the follow through. No Mary. No emu. Daytime. No … Nope, I was wearing a diaper (sigh). Woulda been nice if that part was a dream too, but … Well, I’ll tell you one thing: this aggression will not stand. “Mary!” “Yeah?” “Where are you?” “In here.” We’ll just see about that! I heccin stomped the heck through the dining room and into the kitchen where she was smugly sitting on a chair doing something on her laptop, and ya know what? Nope. If only I had my emu … “What the hell is wrong with you,” I demanded. And her just sitting there looking all stunned and innocent which she isn’t and never has been. No innocent Mary! Guilty! Guilty as sin! “Sinner! Making funna me and calling me names and saying we’re gonna change it and get married and no! No, do you hear me, Mary? No and don’t you ever never again or so help me stuff and things and you’ll wish it was just an emu!” In retrospect, I can see how that could seem a smidge dramatic and a little ridiculous and nonsensical and totally outta the blue, but I can assure you it only seems those things. In actuality, it was entirely called for and made perfect sense. Mary’s what-is-she-even-o-she-musta-had-a-dream-again face. “Did you have one of those dream where I do something to you again?” “So you admit it!” “C’mere.” “Who are you to give me orders?” “Just c’mere,” was Mary’s reply. She’s as diplomatic as a wolverine – she says the words, but she says them at the same time she’s just reaching out, grabbing me gently by the wrist, and tugging me close (I had a weird experience with a wolverine once). “Other than your dream …” “Nightmare and your fault!” Swat. “Are you gonna talk about it without raising your voice and accusing me of something I did in your dream, or do I need to spank your bottom first?” I made my fine-but-grudgingly face and grudgingly said, “Fine.” “Did you have a nice nap?” “Except for the last part, yes.” “Sit,” Mary said and patted her lap. I climbed on with a (dammit!) crinkle. “Wanna tell me about your nightmare?” “You’ll laugh at me.” “Probably.” My Mary is very honest when she’s not up to her devilry and tricks and things. “You called me … a name.” “What name?” “Name calling is wrong. Isn’t that what you always say? And then you just go and …” “In your dream.” I know she’s not responsible for what she says in my dreams, but on the other hand, she plants an awful lot of the ideas that make their way into my dreams. Is that where the term dream girl comes from? Anyhoo… “You called me … Diaper.” “I called you a diaper?” “No,” I said with a teensiest eye roll because she was in the dream and ought to know what she called me even if that doesn’t make any sense, “you called me Diaper and said it was my new name and we were gonna get it legally changed and get married again so it would be on our marriage certificate, and it …” Okay, so maybe possibly a little bit kinda if you say it loud it might be could be sorta perhaps funny. But also not. Let us not forget, also not. “O…kay.” “I knew you’d say that. You’re so mean! “Daffy, I’m not responsible for the things that happen in your dreams.” O, like we haven’t had that conversation before, and I still don’t see her point. “I know that, but still,” I pouted. “Remember how you once asked me if I’d still love you if you went crazy and I said yes?” “That’s a totally random thing to bring up right now. I don’t even know why you bring that up right now or all the times.” Um, really. “I still love you. To the moon and back.” “Good. I love you too.” Then there was an awkward pause, and Mary got a funny look on her face. “So, we’d be Mrs. Mary and Diaper Taylor?” “I can feel you laughing on the inside.” True story cuz I was sitting in her lap and could literally feel her shaking. And I could see her having a harder and harder time not laughing on the outside. “O fine, go ahead.” “Buh-ha! Hahahahahaha!” And if you must know, I didn’t let out even a little giggle. Not true. And if someone says otherwise, they are not be ping truthful, unlike myself who has only ever told the truth ever (except when it’s not to my advantage but those times don’t count). Really. “It’s not funny.” And contradicting yourself in the space of a few sentences isn’t lying (necessarily). “If you say so,” she tittered. “I did, so there.” “I guess I had better not ever call you Diaper, huh?” “Not if you wanna live with someone who likes you.” I mean, I’ll always like her but for brief periods I might not. Like, a few minutes here and there (at most). “Speaking of,” she said all casual like she wasn’t about to do one of the worst things she ever did to me, “you stayed dry during your nap. Good girl.” It wasn’t the unrestrained groping (she calls it a diaper check, but I know when I’m being groped and don’t get me started on that whole bundle of knotted conflicted feels). It was being called a good girl (squeee! My wife thinks I’m a good girl!) for not sleep wetting (what the heck! I haven’t done that since this one time college after my first and last experiment with 100-proof tequila. I was led astray by older girls who mistook me for a party beast when I’m at most a party gerbil and was o so innocent at the time). I had to let Mary know not to go mixing and matching the button pushing like that, and it’s super important to communicate very clearly about these things in a kink relationship. To wit: “Marrryy!” I think maybe she was confusing the (gay) squirming I was doing for my enjoying the internal push and pull between my praise kink and humiliation kink cuz she responded with, “What, I can’t congratulate my wife for being a good girl and not piddling her pampers during her nap?” I was about to tell her to stop (and to stop reading into the (gay) squirming I was still doing) when I took notice of her laptop and what she was looking at before I confronted her. “What are you doing?” “What?” “What are you looking at?” Well, I knew what she was looking at, so my question was more of a why. She said, “Um.” Nice to wrong foot her for a change. “Puppies.” “Why are you looking at puppies?” Also, PUPPIES! WHICH ARE SO CUTE AND NATURALLY UWU AND I JUST WANNA SQUEEZE EM AND HUG EM AND PET EM AND LOVE EM AND UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES BE RESPONSIBLE FOR ONE! “Hear me out,” she began because we’d talked about his before, “I want a dog.” I knew that part because that was a major part of what we talked about before, the driving force of that convo, actually. “And …” I asked when there was no more context forthcoming. “And I think it would be good for us, and for you. It’ll give you something to do. You could use a little responsibility in your life.” “I’m responsible for lots of things!” “Lots of small things. A medium-sized thing would help you …” “Yes?!?” I gave her my choose-your-words-carefully look. “It would help you get out of those more … And give you … Help you … Perspective.” “It would help me perspective. Good job with the words.” I’m the wordsmith in these parts. Mary just lives here. Saying that seemed to have triggered Mary’s fine-I’ll-say-it-plain face. “It will help you be a little less like a bored middle schooler home for the summer with nothing to do.” “Scoff! Am not! As if! Rolling my eyes now!” Okay, so she may have had a point, but still. Honor and stuff to defend and things. “Give me one example.” Mary’s you-really-want-to-cuz-I-will-and-you-won’t like-it face. What having a dog to take care will or won’t do for my behavior was beside the point. The point was, as I explained for not the first time, “You know how responsibility for living things makes me feel.” Anxious as fuck. Really. “You’re taking good care of your garden.” “I threw a tantrum when my chard had leaf spot!” “Yeah, but that was an emotional time of the month.” “And proximity to dogs stops periods, Mary!?!” I put my head on her shoulder because reasons that are none of your concern. Keep your mind in your business. “Do you really want a dog?” “I do. I really do.” “I’ll worry about it all the time. Like last time.” So, um, this one time I adopted a dog, discovered being responsible for another mammal all on my own made my anxiety sky rocket, and had to find it a new home. I cried so hard I lost my security deposit (not really, but also really almost), and I’m still ashamed about giving up on a living thing after taking responsibility for it. “That was a long time ago. Your anxiety wasn’t under control then, and you were on your own.” So hey, scary thought: the current me is the me whose anxiety is under control. Yikes, right? “And it’ll be something we do together,” Mary continued. “We’ll take care of her and love her together.” “You really want a dog?” “Not if you really don’t.” “I like dogs.” Actually love them. Well, almost all of them. My brother has a dog that eats its own poo, and when it burps, which it does every few minutes, you just wanna flee the room and die and I don’t go over to his house when I go home to Wisconsin anymore. True story. All too true story. “I know you do.” Mary is so good to me. She really wanted a dog. I know she wouldn’t hold a grudge if I said no. But she did have a point about not doing it alone this time and me being in a better place now. And maybe possibly cuz stranger things have happened in the world, she might’ve had a point about me needing some more responsibility and a reason to leave the house more and not spend so much time planted on my butt in front of the TV. “You know if we go look at them we’re coming home with one, right?” Just thought I’d point out to her that I’m weak. If I see one and hold one and squeeze one (and I will squeeze it. O heck yes I will squeeze it), I’m too weak willed to not bring it home. Weak willed but at least self-aware about it. “I know, which is why we don’t have to. If you really don’t want to, we don’t have to.” I gave it a few seconds thought, cuz it wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it, and decided, “Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a puppy together.” “Are you really sure? I won’t be upset if you say you don’t want to.” “I know. I’m sure.” And then Mary squeed (and she’s not a squee’er) and squeezed me (she is a squeezer) and not that I could see cuz she was hugging the stuffing outta me, but I’m pretty sure she was making sparkly uwu anime eyes. “Thank you (kiss)! It’s gonna be so wonderful (kiss)! And you’re (kiss) gonna do (kiss) so (kiss kiss kiss) great (kiss kiss kiss) and you’ll see (kiss kiss kiss kiss).” “Save some for the puppy,” I giggled. “No (kiss kiss kiss kiss).” “Heehee! Marrry! You’re gonna make me … ow!” Fall of her lap is how I was gonna finish that sentence. Mary’s o-my-god-what-have-I-done face. “I’m okay.” It was an anticipatory ow, ya know the kind you say just in case? I think maybe only humans do that. We’re weird. “Up!” She didn’t wait for me to get up so much as she swept me to my feet. “Let’s go find you some pants.” “Where are we going?” Because, as we all know now, leaving the house is one of the very few reasons to wear pants anymore. “The pet store. We have some shopping to do.” “What panties will I be wearing with my pants,” I asked her as we ascended our staircase. “You didn’t bedwet, silly, remember? Why would I change you out of a dry diaper?” “But this one is really crinkly.” “I know. I can hear. Heehee. You wish you’d tinkled your huggies after all?” “That’s just a mean thing to say … If I pee now, can I wear panties?” Not that I’d lower myself to … dammit. “You are such a silly goose! Of course you can’t wear undies if you wet your diaper while you’re awake. That just tells me you need them.” “Like, forever?” I’m wary of every word she says (when I deign to listen to her, commoner that she is). “Of course not. Just until tomorrow. But you can wear undies over your diaper,} she said fast while moving fast in a manner that she called over-stimulated when I do it. “Mary, love, look at me: I think the prospect of having a baby animal in the house is making your mommy hormones surge.” That so didn’t even slow her down. “Speaking of baby animals, if you’re a good girl at the store we can get a leash and collar for you too, and maybe even a chew toy.” I remember once upon a time not that long ago when that wouldn’t do anything for me at all, and to my utmost regret, her saying that caused a tingly feeling in the lowest part of my tummy. The kink spiral is long and unpredictable. True story. As she was approaching me with a wild momma bear look in her eye, I asked, “Can we go out to lunch too?” “Of course. For a trip that long, we’ll have to take your diaper bag.” She held out a pair of panties for me, which are somehow more infantilizing when worn over a diaper than wearing a diaper on its own, like it’s such a transparent effort to humor my pretensions to being a big girl (which I am and they’re not pretensions! Really!). “Step in.” I did, and she slid them up my (very slender and attractive) legs and seated them firmly (as thought trying to wedgie me, which fortunately she doesn’t do when she decides she wants to dress me but does do when she decides she wants to spank bare cheeks without taking my panties down … dammit). “Daffy, did you wet your diaper just now?” “Um, no?” “O, so you don’t feel that?” She was feeling it enough for the both of us. “That means you really must need pampers then. Can you feel if I do this?” “Gah! Mhmm … mmm. Y-y-yeah … I mean urf … no.” “No, you can’t feel it or no, you don’t need pampers?” “No … diapers.” And then she just stopped. Hmmph! Her orgasm denial kink is just so … Deep breath. You like all the other things about her. “We’ll see. Pants, shorts, or skirt today?” “So heccin unfair,” I grumbled understand my breath. Don’t start it if you’re not gonna finish. She didn’t notice me pouting and I didn’t notice her still on Cloud Nine bouncing around like me on peanut butter until she said, “And I have a feeling, Daphne Ann, that you and our new puppy are going to be sharing some puppy pads.” “You wouldn’t!” O. My. Gawd. Mary’s yes-I-will-too face. Eep.

I can’t do all the work for you, silly goose! ??

Whichever ones make you happy ?

I had inspiration for a one-off today, so I wrote it. Enjoy. __________________ The Talk Honey, could you come downstairs please? We need to talk … You’re not in trouble, but we need to have a little chat. There you are. Come sit next to me. Did I tell you you’re looking handsome today? Cuz you are. O, don’t roll your eyes at me. I know you’re perpetually embarrassed by your stepmom, but you’re eighteen, a little old to still be blushing every time I give you a compliment. Here’s another compliment: I’m proud of you. You’re doing so well at school, and you’re adjusting so well. You even followed the no-pants at home rule without my even reminding you today. I know it’s silly to you, but it really helps me keep an eye on your diapers. Speaking of, lemme check … Just as I thought, damp but you don’t need a change. And clean too. And don’t go making your pouty face. I can see when you’re wet and I can usually smell when you’re messy, but I can’t always tell if you’re wet enough to need changed, and sometimes you have those small poopy accidents, and I can’t tell if you passed gas or just made a very small mess, or if you’re about to make a much bigger mess in your diaper. That’s why sometimes when you’re poopy you have to wait for a change, so I can make sure you’re all done. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about how you’re doing such a good job adjusting to being back in diapers. Remember when I first put you back in diapers, how hard you cried? I didn’t cry because I wanted to be brave for you, but I was crying on the inside because when you’re not happy, I’m not happy. That’s what it’s like being a mom, even a stepmom and even when her baby is eighteen. You cried so hard I thought my heart would break for you. And then the tantrums, o my gosh. All that yelling about how you don’t need diapers and your accidents weren’t that bad and how you’re a grownup and can make your own choices. But you never stopped me from changing your pampers or ever took them off on your own, and that told me you knew deep down you need your diapers and that I’d made the right choice by not giving you a choice. I’m just so glad you stopped having those tantrums before I had to spank your bottom. It's been almost two years since your last spanking. You hated it so much then and went on and on about how you were too old for it. Remember how you would argue you were too big even when you were over my lap, and you’d keep arguing right up until the first spank? Then the sniffling and the tears. I didn’t like spanking your bottom then, and I didn’t want to have to start doing it again. Imagine how you’d feel thinking your spanking days were behind you and then getting turned over my knee, having your wet diaper pulled down, and having your stepmom spank your bare fanny until you were a sniffling, crying mess with your feet kicking and your nose running just like when you were little. Just imagine yourself as technically an adult, coming off your stepmommy’s lap holding your little red bottom and doing the spanky dance from foot to foot with your privates on display but too worried about your sore bottom to even think to be modest. Don’t think it can’t still happen by the way, but I hope your spanking days are over just like you do. Imagine how your diapers would hold in the heat of your spanking. With how often you’re wetting, I wouldn’t even be able to put you in the corner bare bottom anymore. I’d have to diaper you again right away and it would keep your poor bottom so warm, and anybody visiting would be able to see your spanked red thighs peeking out from under your diaper, as if you in the corner sniffling and with those big tear streaks on your face wouldn’t tell them you’d just gotten off stepmommy’s lap. Anyway, I’m so glad just the threat of a spanking, and a few warning swats to your bottom, were enough to put a stop to those tantrums. I think you’d pee all over me during your spankings, but more importantly, I never liked having to spank your bottom no matter how naughty your choices were. We’re both lucky those few spanks I gave you when you were legs up on the changing table finally got through: let stepmommy do what’s best for you, put you back into diapers, or you’d be in for one heckuva trip over my knee for a bare bottom spanking with my hand and hairbrush. But phew! No need for that kind of discipline, and you’re doing so well adjusting not just at home but at school. Remember your first week back at school in diapers? That very first day, we went to the nurse’s office to drop off your diapers and changing supplies. You were so upset because the diapers wouldn’t fit in any bag we had, and you had to carry the two packages through the hallways. If I was embarrassed for you to be back in diapers, I can only imagine how you must’ve felt walking past all your schoolmates and teachers. Nurse Jenny was very nice about it all. She wanted you back in diapers two years ago because of your accidents, but I kept saying you’d get past it, that the doctors would figure it out and I didn’t want to hurt your self-esteem by putting you back in pampers like I was giving up on you ever using the potty again. Nurse Jenny tried to tell me how much worse for your self-esteem it must be having accidents in your pants that everyone could see, but I thought I knew best. Three outfits a day you were going through before we tried pull-ups, and those were so leaky you were still coming home in different pants than I sent you to school in. And socks, and sometimes even shoes. Remember how icky it felt when your weewee accidents would run down your legs into your shoes? Poor little lamb. It was your stinky accidents that changed my mind. I tried to tell myself they were one-offs, but Nurse Jenny was adamant. I still didn’t believe it, and I felt sorry for her having to help you clean up after those times you messed your goodnites, but I thought I was doing what was best for you. Even if, as you and I learned too many times, goodnites just aren’t made to hold the kinds of accidents a big kid – sorry, young adult – like you can have in them. Dirty pull-ups, dirty pants … Let’s face it: dirty diapers are much better, if we’re grading on a curve. Cleanup on someone your size isn’t easy, heaven knows, but much easier to clean up your dirty diapers. At least everything usually stays in your diaper. Blowouts happen – heaven and everyone else shopping at Walmart that day knows that too – but more stinky accidents than not were blowouts when you were having them in your goodnites. It was almost as bad as when you browning your tighty whiteys twice a day. Bottoming out your huggies is, well, not convenient, but more convenient, don’t you think? Of you course you do. And hasn’t Nurse Jenny been so nice? She didn’t get cross when you disobeyed her and she had to go pull you out of class to change your diaper even though you knew to go to her when you needed changed. Remember what the three of us talked about? … That’s right: your diapers can’t help you if you don’t get them changed. They’re not any better than your tighty whiteys if you sit in class until they’re sopping wet cuz you're afraid someone will wonder why you’re leaving class and don’t need to ask permission, or if they hear your crinkling or see you waddling. You’ve even learned to walk in your diapers with barely any waddling at all unless they’re soaked or full. You don’t even cry anymore when you need to go see Nurse Jenny. Yes, she told me about how you’d shown up at her office door sniffling those first few days, wearing such a sad frown almost pleading to get you into something dry and clean. And I know you don’t like the way she baby talks to you during your diaper changes, but if it helps her get through a yucky job, more power to her. Besides, she sent me a video of one of your changes like I asked her to, and I don’t think her baby talk was over the top or too embarrassing. You are a much tush huggy fudger at least twice and usually three times a day. There’s no use denying it, and you may have been pouting in that video and trying to look all grumpy and grown up, but I saw how you giggled and squirmed when she tickled your sides and blew that great big raspberry on your tummy. No use denying that you liked it. That’s why I started doing it at home. You can’t hide the little squees and smiles you make when I tickle your tummy any more than you can hide what you do in your diapers. And isn’t baby talk better than awkward silence like you have something to be ashamed of? Because you don’t. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You can’t help your accidents. That’s why you’re back in diapers, like a toddler who could be potty trained but for whatever reason isn’t it, except you’re an adult. And that’s okay, and you now that now, and I’m proud. And you’re doing so well socially. I know it was hard at first, but it did take longer for word to get around that you were back in diapers. You said it would happen by lunch time that first day, but it took the whole day … Yes, that is a meaningful difference. Trust me, I know these things. That’s why I’m the stepmommy. A few people saw you carrying them into school, but I suspect a lot of people thought that was just a rumor when word started to get around. Then you had that leak in class when you didn’t go to Nurse Jenny. Most of your classmates thought it was just another one of your accidents, and they were used to those. I bet the girls who babysit must’ve recognized those two half-moons on your cheeks as a leaky diaper. Nothing else leaves wet spots like those except huggies that just can’t hold anymore, but they didn’t know for sure. But it wasn’t until gym … Don’t make that grumpy face with me. We’ve been over this. I know the school would have excused you from gym, but you need the exercise, and if you have to take gym, you have to change for it. It’s not my fault there’s nowhere private for you to change for gym. Anyway, it wasn’t until gym that the rumors were confirmed. Remember how upset you were? I had to come up to school just to calm you down, sitting in the coach’s office until you stopped crying. My boss wasn’t happy – so much missed work leaving work to bring you fresh clothes, but when I explained our new solution, she agreed anything I needed to do to get you used to your new “underpants” would make me a better, more productive worker in the long term … I’m not verbally putting quotations marks around “underpants” when I refer to your diapers as “underpants.” You always say I do that, and I don’t have any idea what you mean. Anyway, when your new “underpants,” became common knowledge, and you had a good cry with me about how embarrassing it was and how it was even more embarrassing that everyone knew you were in coach’s office crying with your stepmom cuz everyone saw your new “underpants” and you felt like such a baby, I said it would al turn out okay, and I was right, wasn’t I? Of course I was. I know there are bullies who still tease you, but almost everyone in the whole school knew about your accidents already. So many accidents – big ones, small ones, wet ones, stinky ones – it was common knowledge you had them. I’d be at the beauty parlor and one of the other women would be talking about how their teen said one of their peers had a big accident in their pants at school, and I’d blush just like you are right now and not say a word when all the women agreed someone who has those kinds of accidents should be back in diapers even if they are eighteen. It seemed like most of the town knew someone who knew someone who had seen or heard about your problem, and it’s not like we live in a small town. I’m just sorry that it seems like everyone knew you needed to be back in diapers before I was ready to admit it to myself. But other than the bullies, you’d had so many accidents and so many destroyed pull-ups that most of your classmates didn’t even make fun when they found out you were wearing diapers at school. They knew you needed diapers even before I did. Remember what they used to say? “Ew, gross, they should be in diapers.” I know most of them were teasing, but they had a point. And I’m sure it doesn’t bother them that you aren’t leaving puddles in the classroom or interrupting class. No more “Mrs. So-and-so? It happened again,” and the teacher had to ask if you had an accident in your pants again, and you’d deny it right to their faces until they made you stand up and then sent you to Nurse Jenny, and then the custodian having to come in and clean up if it got everywhere. I don’t know if you know this, but in the other sections, no one would sit in the same chair as you. And as smelly as your poopy diapers can be, they’re still better than poopy pants. Your social life actually improved when I put you back in diapers. You're not eating lunch alone anymore cuz people aren’t afraid you’ll pee on them if they’re sitting next to you. Isn’t it nice eating with your classmates? And I bet you like the attention you’re getting from the girls in your class. It’s not exactly romantic attention, like we talked about when you thought maybe that one girl liked you. It’s more like they think of you as their younger sibling. That’s why it’s the girls who’ve stood up to the bullies for you more than the boys, though plenty of boys have stuck up for you too. Isn’t that nice of them, telling the bullies to mind their own business and that you can’t help it if you still need diapers because your dirty your undies and isn’t that better than what it was like sharing a classroom with you before? That sure did shut up the bullies; well, most of them. You don’t even come home crying anymore. I’m so proud of you for that. You can even play sports again if you want. I know you worry about waddling on the field or going two hours without a change, but we can double-diaper you like we do for car rides, movies, church, going out to eat, shopping, the park, and the beach. I know everybody can tell you’re wearing diapers when you’re doubled up, but isn’t that just proof that no one will make fun? If they all know and no one – well, almost no one – points or laughs or teases, that just proves most people will be nice about it. You even went to a party, and I know how brave of you it was to do that. We’re lucky to have a neighbor like Samantha, and luckier that she’s in your class. Isn’t it nice to have someone you’ve known your whole like come hang out with you when mom and I have a date night? … What? She’s not your babysitter, sweetie, we’ve talked about that many times. She’s just a friend who comes over to spend time with you when we’re not around. Really. I know it’s embarrassing for you when she changes your diaper, but it’s embarrassing for her too, not to mention yucky. It’s been so nice of her to take you places too, like that party. When I was your age, disappearing into a bedroom at a party would start all kinds of rumors; I know she was worried about that because the two of us talked about it, but I assured her everyone would know she was just helping you change your pampers, and I was right. People would’ve assumed that even if I didn’t tell her to leave your soaked diaper at the top of the trash in the kitchen just to be sure. Everybody already knows you wear diapers. Isn’t it better for people to know you were just getting your diaper changed and not that have any confusion or rumors that you had intercourse with her? You don’t want a reputation for being easy or loose or “scoring” with women, do you?. Neither does Samantha. She told me the last thing she wanted was for people to think the two of you were having sex or, worse, that you’re dating. It’s so wonderful to have a good, virtuous girl who thinks not only of her own reputation but yours as well for a friend, isn’t it? I know you have your urges, of course, which are perfectly natural. You can’t help those any more than you can help everything else to do with your diaper area. We don’t have to talk about birds and bees you’re not ready, but just know that when you’re read to discuss love and relations, I’m here for you. I just hope it’s before you leave for college. In the meantime, it’s best if we both just keep pretending you don’t do anything in your diapers except pee and poop yourself. I spoke with Pastor Sarah, and she agrees some things are better left undiscussed. She was so eager to have that conversation over; “Please, let’s just stop talking about it and pretend this never happened,” she said. She really lives by her word, as a pastor should. And she was so wonderful in organizing that fundraiser so the men’s bible study group could you build you a changing table in the mother’s room for when you pack your pampers during services. The acoustics really are something in there, aren’t they? So anyway, I just wanted to say how proud I am of you. I know it’s been hard, and I know the future can be scary sometimes, but you’re doing so good. It’s so hard being eighteen and ready to be a grownup but still needing diapers, but I really do believe the further you get into adulthood, the easier wearing diapers will be for you, if only because you’ll get even more used to it than you’ve already gotten. It’s so much easier already and it’s only been a month, right? What a month! And you have so many people who will help you. Such a loving community. And you know you can always come to me for anything. I love you, and I always will. You’ll be stepmommy’s little diaper butt no matter how old you get. Awww, there you go blushing again. Gimme a hug, and then let’s go get your pants changed. If I’m not mistaken – and I’m definitely, definitely not – you’ve been filling your diaper this whole time. March your butt straight to the changing table, stinky pants, and we’ll get you clean and dry and happy in no time. Well, about twenty minutes judging by your waddle, but we’re getting faster at it every day, handsome. Scoot!

I figured if anybody would enjoy that, it was you ?

Scene #164 I’ll be okay if I can just live through the night. It’s happened before. But let me back up to explain. “Why are you putting cocoa powder on vanilla ice cream,” the benevolent tyrant named Mary asked me. “Cuz I like it this way.” “Why not just have some chocolate ice cream?” I swear she looks at me like an anthropologist inspecting the strange ways of an uncontacted tribe sometimes. “This is better than chocolate ice cream.” “Yeah,” she said, “that’s a normal thing normal people do.” Well, that was just rude, and I’ve had my fill of rudeness, even if the rude person may (sorta) have a point. Mary had her back turned to me, which just goes to show she doesn’t fear me at all even after such a offense as hers, and she should cuz I’m fierce and reckless and fiercely reckless. I pulled back my hand, I swung it forward, and smack. Right on Mary’s butt. Then I ran like hell with my ass on fire before she could do it for real. I’m very brave, by the way, with the courage of my convictions and stuff. Really. Just … sometimes retreat is the better part of valor … And I’m very valorous and stuff and things also. Um, really. “Daphne Ann Taylor,” Mary the Vengeful sternly called after me, “you get your butt back here right now, young lady.” “No.” I think that was very reasonable on my part. “You’re only making it worse.” “I doubt that’s possible.” True story. Up the stairs I dashed, not sure what exactly my end game was. The last time I smacked Mary on the butt, well, she returned the favor, quite generously about three hundred times over. She’s very giving, my Mary is. That’s the benevolent part of her tyranny. Our bedroom is where the spanking implements live. Going in there would be like running into the swamp thing’s swamp. The other bedroom, though … Closet full of boxes, and me. “Daphne, come out here.” Way to telegraph that you don’t know where I am, silly goose. Yep, if I’m gonna smack my domme on the butt, I might as well double down and call her a silly goose (in my head where she can’t hear me). I can live like this, I thought, in my fortress of fortifications; I don’t take up much space, and I can sneak downstairs for food and water when she’s asleep. And sure, hiding in a closet may seem like the second in a rapid succession of impulsive decisions, but not having an exit strategy is a proud American tradition. “Daphne,” said the voice of the dictatress from within the room. Gulp. “I know you went upstairs, and there are only so many rooms up here. Do you wanna come out of the closet, or do you want me to come in there and get you?” Well, that was a fun seventy seconds of safety. Ah-hah! Humor will defuse this situation! “Honestly, I’d prefer if you came in here and got me.” “What?” “I want the press to say I didn’t give up without a fight.” “This isn’t funny.” Okay, so humor won’t defuse this situation. “Does it help if I apologize and say I’ll never do it again even if you’re pants are on fire?” I didn’t actually mean that last part. If her pants are ever on fire, I’ll swat at the flames. I do like her a lot, after all. “Fine,” she responded, and then … silence. Well, that was unnerving. Which is unusual for me. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “she has a lot of nerve.” “You just stay in there, and you and I are going to have a little chat about right and wrong.” “Um, okay.” “I admit that what I said was a little cutting, and I apologize for that. Do you accept my apology?” “Yes.” “But no matter what someone says, you don’t hit.” “You smack my butt all the time for stuff I say!” “I don’t hit you, Daphne. I spank your bottom when you need a consequence to help you make better choices in the future.” “That’s a distinction that isn’t,” I grumbled. “When it’s a child, no, there’s no difference at all. But you’re not a child. You are a little girl.” Wait a heccin second, did I just get demoted to below the rights that a kid has in the don’t-hit-me-on-the-butt department? Not that I think anyone should ever fit many reason hit a kid on the butt or anywhere else (consenting adults only), but the principle of the principle was at stake. “You’re my little girl, and I won’t have you hitting. That is naughty behavior, Daffy, very naughty.” “You’re talking down to me.” “No, I’m not.” O, well, glad we got that resolved? (I’m rolling my eyes sarcastically right now). “You are the little girl, and I’m the dominant. Is it okay for little girls to hit their dominant?” O friggin frack. “… No.” That was a valid point she had. I’m not saying she didn’t have other valid points, which is why I didn’t dispute them very much, but that was the most valid of her valid points. It’s not that I disagreed with her. It’s just that I didn’t want a consequence for my misbehavior. “I do an awful lot for you because I love you and because you’re my wife and my little girl, and I don’t ask for very much in return, but I expect you to respect me and us enough to know better than to think it’s okay for you to swat me.” “I do respect you and us. I just …” “What?” “Did it anyway?” “You always did have poor impulse control for a girl your age.” She wasn’t laughing or chuckling or chortling or snickering, but she was definitely doing all of those things (plus giggling) at my expense. She was just doing it on the inside, which I couldn’t hear but I could see through the door (in my head – I am too normal). “So,” I ventured, “we’re in a standoff.” “Not really. I could open that door and pull you out of there right now if I wanted to.” “But, um, you don’t want to?” “I don’t need to. You’re going to come out on your own.” O. That was news to me. I mean, sure, eventually I’d have to come out, but I wasn’t in any pressing hurry. I hadn’t given her a good reason to use her new paddle brush yet, but I had visions of it river dancing across my butt, and ya know, I could do without. But if Mary thought I was going to come out on my own, futurist that she is, maybe she knew the answer to, “When?” “Soon.” “Dammit.” And I swear she was chortling at me again. Me! As though I’m a figure of fun and revelry rather than a paradigm of might whose mere presence causes a hushed awe to descend on the crowd who are delighted simply to gaze upon me. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘let’s watch what happens next.’ Yep, that’s a thing people say about me (I’m quite the topic of conversation in certain circles … sometimes … rarely but not never … among very small (micro) circles). “You’ll come out soon because you know you made a bad choice, Daphne Ann Taylor. You know you need a consequence and will feel better the sooner you get it. You broke a major rule, you hit me, and you know you need to pay the price for that.” “Does the price get higher the longer I stay in here?” That would be a good reason to go out there and face the music (such a weird idiom). Plus, it was dark in the closet. I am an angel of the light, after all, a beacon unto the world. Really. And petite as I am, there was very little room in there for me (closets and I have that kind of history together). I was getting a cramp in my leg. “Much higher.” Well, friggin fine. Might as well bite the bullet … Unless … Worth a shot. (crunch bump rustle ruckus). “What are you doing in there?” “I’m coming out.” “I knew you would.” Of course she knew, the big so and so who knows me better than I know myself which is perfect but also grrr sometimes. “Here I come.” I slid open the door, and it was so much less dramatic than it should’ve been, all things considered and since I was, well, I’ll let Mary tell you. Mary: “What on earth happened to your clothes?!?” Me: “Took ‘em off.” “Why?” I anticipated her asking that. In fact, as soon as I thought to myself, hey, take off your clothes before you go out there, I knew she was going to want to know why I did that, and I prepared my answer before I even got my socks off. So see, I do too think (several seconds) ahead sometimes. “To remind you how much you like my body and please don’t break it.” “What did you think I was gonna do to you,” Mary asked as she pulled the throw blanket off the bed and put it around me. “Spank me really hard … a lot.” “Why would you think that?” Is that … Is that her earnest face of her faux earnest face? Is she putting me on? I gotta be careful around her at (all the) times. It’s like living with a circus tiger – she seems ready to live among the humans and be all soft and furry and then bam! Pounces on you and devours you. Which is so much fun and all, but also sometimes ouch. “Cuz I broke a major rule and disrespected you,” I said as she put her arm around my shoulder and guided me toward our bedroom like she wasn’t being weird at all. I may have hidden in a closet and stripped to my nudity before coming out, but at least that was in character. Mary, by all rights, should’ve been wailing on my butt just then, not gently guiding me to our bedroom like a kitten she found in the rain. “Do you know you made a bad choice?” “Mhmm.” “Then I think the firm scolding you got is enough.” “Really?” Call me mistrustful. “Yeah. Because you know if you ever smack my butt again, after I let you off with just a talking to the first time, I’ll take my belt off.” Gulp. “O … I’d rather not.” I don’t like the belt. Not on a plane or a train or with a moose or a goose because I’ve felt the belt and don’t want to ever feel it again. “Me too. Lay down for your diaper.” “Do I hafta?” “Which one of us is the domme?” So that would be a yes. Of course, I did say I liked it better – which is to say, not at all – when the diapers were a punishment cuz at least I knew when to expect them. But on the other hand, “I thought you said I wasn’t being punished.” “You’re not.” “Yes, I am. You’re making me wear a diaper.” “That’s not a punishment, sweetie.” “Um, yeah it is.” “Nope.” “Yes.” “Mm-mm.” “Yuh-huh, is the thing.” “I’m not making you wear your diaper for punishment, Daffy. I’m putting you in your diaper cuz you wear diapers.” “No I heccin don’t,” she said from flat on her back while her wife put a diaper under her butt. Dammit. “Yes, you do.” “But I don’t, is the other thing.” “Then what’s this,” Mary said as she patted the front of my – her! It’s hers! – diaper. “This probably wouldn’t be happening if I’d left my clothes on, huh?” “You know who takes their clothes off randomly?” “Toddlers?” “You silly goose, what made you think of that first?” Okay, see, now I know she’s putting me on. “Little girls named Daffy takes their clothes off and for the strangest reasons. Are you comfy?” “Physically or more like, on this plane of existence?” “Such big words for my little one. Sit up. We gotta get you re-dressed so we can go out for ice cream.” That’s right! My ice cream was probably melted. “You’re taking me out for ice cream?” “Mhmm.” “I should smack you on the butt twice a week.” “Excuse me?” “Just kidding.” Like, obviously. “Excuse me, little girl. Just for that, I shouldn’t let you wear any pants. How would you like to go through the drive-through wearing just your diaper?” Eep! O heck heccin no! “I’m sorry. Very sorry.” “Look at me,” Mary said as she, um, climbed up on the bed and straddled me, looking down at me with her … big, kind eyes that just love me so much. Oof, she makes it so hard so pick a feeling and stick with it sometimes. “Daffy, I can tell that we’re not getting to Monday without you spending some time over my knee crying your little girl eyes out, and ya know what?” There was a pause until the voice on my head said, O, she’s actually waiting for me to ask, “What?” “Before, during, and after, I’ll love you muchly.” “O geez,” I groaned and put my arms over my eyes cuz I needed a moment alone. But she moved my arms and made me look at her (o geez!) while she added, “When you’re naughty, when I’m taking your pants down, when I’m spanking your bare bottom, when you wipe your runny nose on my shirt – I’ll love you muchly the whole time.” I blinked in response, made that squiggly smile Winne the Pooh makes (according to Mary), and said, “O my goodness.” Which is when Mary made a squiggly smile, probably thinking of how my response was so very normal. “Hug,” she asked as I squirmed underneath her. “All the hugs please.” And you’ll never believe me, but I got all the hugs! True story. “Sorry for smacking you on the butt.” “You said that already. All is forgiven. You wanna take a little cocoa powder to put on your ice cream?” “Mhmm.” “I’ll even love you muchly when people look at us funny while you put cocoa powder on your vanilla ice cream.” Aww! She really likes me and stuff. I can tell.

Scene #163 “Ow!” What the heck? “Ow (spank) ow! (SPANK!) Ouch! Mary! Ow! What’d I even do!?! Ow ow ow ow ow!” I was literally getting a glass of water and suddenly, “(SPANK!) Eep! Quit it!” We looked at each other for a second, and then, “Ow!” Dammit! “I’m done,” she said, leaving me rubbing my butt and wondering what the heccin hey. “What was that all about?” “Bad workday.” O. That’s a perfectly good reason for her to spank me. My butt is like a stress ball, for both of us. “You wanna talk about it?” “Not really.” “Is everything okay at least?” “Yeah, just frustrated.” Mary’s not-happy face. I can’t let that stand. I wouldn’t be a good wife, let alone a good submissive, if I just let Mary stand there all frustrated and not happy. I stepped over to the counter and got the wooden spoon out of the crock. “Here,” I said and thrust it into her hand. “Daffy, you don’t need to …” “Shush. How do you want me?” “Really, it’s …” “Are you gonna make me misbehave? Cuz I’ll do it. I’ll earn a spanking right here and now and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” True story. What’s she gonna do to stop me from earning a spanking? Spank me? Check and mate. She looked at the spoon and seemed to feel the weight of it, though it’s pretty light, and looked back at me. “You’re sure?” “Mhmm.” “Okay,” she said skeptically and led me to our living room. “I’m not mad at you,” she said as she took a seat on the sofa and started unbuttoning my shorts (PS, it’s shorts weather again - squee!). “Get these out of the way.” And just like that, I was showing all my lady parts in our living room again. In some households - weird ones with weird people who have weird standards of behavior - that’s actually considered quite inappropriate, even offensive. Glad we’re not weird or anything. Really. I put myself over her knee and reminded her, “Whoever you’re mad at isn’t me, just in case you get lost in the moment … But don’t hold back if you need to.” “You’re earning major brownie points right now,” she said right before she (THWACK!) landed that spoon on my butt. Not being caught off guard like I was in the kitchen, I did a much better job keeping my ouches and ows to a minimum … at first. “Ow! Mary ow could you ow with the youch just a fungus muffin that hurt!” Which didn’t slow her down at all. “Save some eeep of me fnurnit for later ack!” If I were actually in trouble, I’d have been crying, probably before I even went over her lap because apparently I’m a crybaby now, but since I wasn’t in trouble and didn’t feel the least bit guilty, I didn’t even sniffle. I’m not sure if I like crying during my spankings or not. I do know that without my own carrying on to distract me, I get to concentrate a hundred and fourteen percent on how much it hurts. Lucky me. I should’ve pick a different implement. Or none at all. The spoon can’t even weigh two ounces, and it heccin stings! It can even leave marks. I probably had oval welts all over my butt, and since Mary wasn’t sparing my thighs, I’d have them there too, past where my shorts start. It’s not fun at all and also all the fun ever walking around with spoon marks on the backs of your thighs for others to see to if they happen to. Not that we do it on purpose, but as Mary likes to say (she always likes to say stuff), we’re not gonna delay my consequences or put our life on hold just because I need a spanking where and when others can see the marks (and hear me getting them). I hate-love that so much. I could take a deep breath again when the spoon stopped and Mary with her strong hands was rubbing and squeezing and - “Eep!” Biting stuff with her mouth. “Feel better,” I asked her. “Mhmm. You have such a pretty red bottom.” And her hand, see, she put it, um … well, I’ll keep that part between me … between them … between us … to myself! Dammit! “Thank you,” she said. “I … mmm.” “I’m not gonna let you finish,” she said to me all pleased with herself. “Wanna bet?” We’ll see who can … “Yep.” And then she took her hand away. Dammit. “What happened to brownie points,” I may have whined like a woman who had been spanked and touched just so and wasn’t allowed to finish, also known as heck yes I heccin whined. What the heccin hey?!? “When we get home, I’ll redden up that little butt of yours some more and then flip you over to make your front match. How’s that sound?” “Tell me more,” I said as I, according to sources who aren’t always objective, rhythmically moved my thighs against her leg. SPANK! “Ow.” “Nice try. Up.” “I can have more than one, ya know.” Like she’s saving them as though they’re in short supply. Trust me, they’re not. But of course that’s not the actual reason she started when she didn’t (let me) finish. “But it’s so much more fun for me to make you wait. You’re pretty when you’re horny,” she said as she got up and reached under the side table for the basket of her diaper changing supplies. “Where do you wanna go to dinner?” “Somewhere that serves dessert.” I flipped onto my back obediently without even being told … Can it be obedience if you haven’t been told to do it yet? Preemptive obedience? “I don’t like diapers,” I reminded her. “I know. Lift your butt.” “I dislike them, actually.” “Down. So you’ve said.” “I like sex.” “And you can have some later after you finish your dessert.” I’m so very put upon.

Scene #162 “Mary, come look at this.” “Do you really need me to come look, or are you laying on the bed naked,” she called back from wherever she was doing whatever she was doing. I really did need her to come look, sorta but not really but yes, but she did give me an idea for the future. Maybe one day this week I’ll need her to come look at a few things in the bedroom. Heehee! “I need you to come look.” My Mary usually strides or saunters or struts and once even promenaded, but it sure sounded like she was trudging up the stairs to me. “What?” Can you believe she said that? I chose to ignore it. “Remember that snake I saw in the yard?” “You mean do I remember hearing you shriek and running because I thought you were hurt and finding you flailing at the ground with a shovel?” “It wasn’t a shriek; it was a battle cry, and yes. This says there can be four hundred of these snakes to an acre. We have to move.” “You are such a fraidy cat.” “Ssssss!” “Did you just hiss at me?” “You called me a name. Besides, you’re the one who won’t even kill her own spiders.” “But,” she said as she advanced on me. She’s always advancing on me. “I am the one who’ll spank her wife’s butt when she gets sassy.” “Hey whoa! Stop just flipping me over.” “Make me!” And then – get this – she gave me ten rapid spanks on – get this! – my butt!!! Like, who even does that (aside from most of the women I choose to associate myself with and the one I married named Mary). “What was that for!?!” “Because it makes you sexually excited. Why don’t you go see your Nana for a while?” Which is when we had the awkward silence to end all awkward silences. Normally, I’d find it very funny when Mary gets flustered for once, but the manager in charge of funny in my brain walked off the job and into the ocean. “Um, heh, what I, uh, not related … the sentences! Why don’t you just go hang out with her … if she’s home, give you something to do.” “Maybe you take a nap while I’m gone,” I said to Miss Mary Malaprop while giving her the sidiest side eye ever. “Is everything okay? You came upstairs a little grumpy.” “I hate doing taxes.” “You’ll like it more when we get the refund check.” I had offered to do them, and Mary patted me on the head and said she really appreciated the offer but it’s a grownup job. Then she said my job was to be smol, play with toys, and “glare at me just like you’re doing now, cutie … Yep, just like that.” Which made me blush and look away, and she snickered at me! The nerve this woman has on her! By Jove, I like her and stuff (and her things too). “What if instead of going to Nana’s I take a nap with you? I’ll be the big spoon, and don’t you tell me I’m too little for it.” I preempted that whole thing. She’d probably never say I was too little again. Really. “I’m almost done. Scoot.” And there she went swatting my butt again. “Are your pull-ups still dry?” “It’s a ‘pull-up,’ Mary. Up. I’m only wearing one. Don’t make it worse than it is.” “Speaking of grumpy butts.” “Am not. I just don’t like snakes.” “They’re the size of a pencil.” “They’re snakes … We should buy a mongoose. Or mongeese.” Mongooses? “Yeah, that’s a thing that’s gonna happen.” I was halfway out the door when she said, “Wait. Gimme a kiss.” Which I did and I liked it and I had that Katy Perry song stuck in my head for a half hour after. I headed to Nana’s back door cuz we’re familiar like that and was pleased to find her in yard getting her garden ready for planting. “Hi,” I said loudly enough for her to hear me over her headphones. “Hiya. Was that you screaming earlier?” “Yes.” I’ll own it. I have nothing to be embarrassed about. “What on earth was Mary doing to you?” “Nothing,” I snootily answered back. I was a little offended. I don’t think I’ve ever carried on that way cuz of anything Mary has ever done … I think. She’s done a lot of stuff to me, some of the best parts fuzzy in my memory. And how did Nana get to be someone who just assumes we’re up to kinky stuff or that I’m in trouble all the time? We’ve done nothing to give her that impression. Really. Were actually quite normal and vanilla and private. Really. “I saw a snake,” I informed her. “O. You don’t like snakes?” “Not even a little.” “What kind was it?” “A ring-neck, according to the interwebs.” “All that screaming for one of those little things?” “It was a battle cry, and a small snake is not not a snake. I’m ready to move, but if we have to disclose we have snakes I don’t think we’ll get much for our house.” I know we wouldn’t have to disclose that, but I’m just saying. Do you wanna buy a snake house? If the answer is yes, we can’t be friends. “You’re so dramatic.” “They’re serpents!” Go read some literature and see how civilizations stretching back to the very beginning feel about serpents. The apple was just one of their many misdeeds. “They eat pests.” “They are a pest! I’d rather have a mouse than a snake. At least the mouse is a mammal.” Like me. Small, cute, soft, which taken together is I guess what smol means; and vulnerable to the predations of predators (named Mary) who are always threatening to pounce, swoop down, strike, or bite. I’m not sure which of those is my favorite. “You wanna help me?” “Yes please. Be right back.” I ducked back into my yard and emerged with my trusty pitchfork. I’d left it out. Good thing Mary isn’t terribly interested in gardening and outdoor chores, or I’d probably get a lecture about taking care of my tools as prelude to getting my butt beat with the garden hose (which really happened once, but I don’t think I could do it now; o, to be young again). “So what’s happening in your life, Daffy?” “Spring,” I said as I helped her spread mulch. “Being outside and planting stuff. You really started something.” “How’s that?” “I used to think I hated gardening, and then I helped you plant tulip bulbs and you offered to help with our garden, and now I spend all winter looking forward to it.” “It’s fun making things grow, isn’t it? Are you planting anything special this year?” “The plan is to plant more berries. I planted two blueberry bushes last year and got exactly three berries.” They were very good. I figure if I spend another eighty dollars on berry bushes I could have enough to top a (very small) bowl of ice cream. Won’t that be fun? Heehee! “And I learned my lesson last year about vegetables,” I added. “Figured out a better way to plant them?” “Figured out not to plant them at all. We had so many, and Mary insisted we actually eat them.” Something dumb about them being healthy for us. I just grew them cuz I like making stuff grow. But Mary was all about actually eating them, and that led to our then-latest disagreement about the importance of eating vegetables, which led to me remind Mary she’s not in charge of what I put in my body, which led to Mary making her wanna-bet face and reminding me she’s in charge of me, which led to her not letting me have dessert for a week. But because I am an agent of my down destiny, Mary not letting me have dessert isn’t the same as me not having dessert. When Mary discovered my perfidy (her word; I prefer ‘civil disobedience’), she reminded me she can’t make me do anything but she can make me wish I had. Long story short, got spanked, dessert prohibition was extended another week minimum and remained in effect until I asked her to spank me with the bathbrush. And lemme tell you something – turns out I like dessert more than I hate that bathbrush, so it’s not like I wasted time in asking for it. Of course, Mary put her thumb on the scale and arrived home that afternoon with a cake from a bakery and was o so ready to remind me I couldn’t have any until I asked for my spanking. If only she put her genius into being god instead of wicked. “You come up with more ways to get yourself into trouble,” Nana said. Aw crap, did I really just tell that story to Nana? “It’s not my fault Mary cares more about my health than my hedonism.” And she really likes certain aspects of my hedonism, so imagine how much more she likes me healthy and stuff. “Ya know,” I said for no particular reason, “if you were my real nana, I’d expect to be spoiled with cookies and cake and candy when I come over.” Cookies, cake, and candy: three of the four Cs I love to get my lips around. The other one is … anyhoo … “If you were really my granddaughter, I wouldn’t tell Mary you said that.” “You’re not gonna tell her.” Nice try, Nana, but not fooling me for a second. “I know how hard she works to keep you on the straight and narrow. I don’t mind giving her a hand.” “Mary doesn’t know anything about keeping anyone straight.” True. Story. “Hahahaha! Very smoothly done.” “Thank you.” We kept working for a bit and were interrupted by someone tall and brunette calling, “Hello,” over the fence. “We’re here,” I called back. And then there was Mary looking much happier than when I saw her last, which is just kinda the best. “Hi, Mae,” Mary politely greeted Nana. “You look happier,” I said before Nana could respond. “Cuz I’m done.” “Are we getting any money back?” “Nope. We owe a little.” “Then why do you look so happy?” “Cuz I’m done. I was doing our taxes,” Mary explained to Nana. “Can I get you something,” Nana asked. “We were just about done too.” “Only if it’s no trouble.” “It’s no trouble. Have a seat, and I’ll bring out some lemonade,” Nana said. I waited for her to disappear in the house and quietly asked Mary, “Do all grandmas always have a pitcher of lemonade ready or just the one who lives next to us?” Nana always has a pitcher of lemonade ready. “Maybe she just likes lemonade. Hee!” “What ‘hee’? What’d I miss?” “You.” O my gosh, she’s doing that thing where she puts her hands around my waist and looks at me with that derpy smile on her face. Whereas I am derpy by default but hide it well (What? Really), Mary is at her derpiest when she’s looking at me. “What about me?” I wasn’t fishing for compliments; I was just curious. Play it cool, Daphne. No one likes it when ya just throw it at ‘em. That’s actually not true of course; Mary kinda sorta definitely likes it when I’m so thirsty it’s near a medical condition (which sometimes triggers her orgasm denial kink, and then it really does turn into a medical condition). “You’re dirty,” is what she told me. Like, wow, just straight up reading my mind. “I’m not any dirtier than you, ya big perv.” One of these days, I’m going to seek out an expert on being a brat and ask them how to do it cuz I don’t know how. Really. “Silly goose, I meant you’re dirty. You got a smudge on your face, and you’re sweaty and you smell like yard.” “Lemonade and cookies,” Nana called from the patio, but we were busy. “And you like it when I’m dirty?” “Mhmm. I like it on a warm day when my little girl comes in from playing hard. Makes you look so wholesome, like my own real life Raggedy Daphne Ann.” “I’m not gonna take offense at being called ‘raggedy’ cuz I know you didn’t choose that word.” “You even have the same hair color. You look like you’ve been having young adult adventures and need me to put you in the tub and scrub you clean.” I’m not blushing! You’re blushing! “Our host has cookies,” I reminded her cuz we were borderline being rude, but also reminded myself cuz anything short of a cookie wouldn’t have gotten me to go over to the patio instead of standing in my Mary’s arms being adored. I’d work on her choice of comparison later, but just then we were all gay and held hands to the patio. “Do you have any plans for the summer yet,” Mary asked Nana. “I’m going to the beach for a week with my son and his family, and my friends are meeting me for another week. Other than that, just the regular things.” I wish I had friends to go to the beach with for a week. I mean, I do, but since they work and I don’t, my schedule is a smidge more open than theirs. They can’t take a vacation with their family and another one with me, unfortunately. “What about you,” Nana asked. “We’ve got big plans. We’re taking a trip to the lake for a week, and we’ll probably take a few long weekends, and I’m making a summer reading list for Daffy.” “You are,” I asked. I like reading. Hope it’s mostly erotica because reasons. “That’s a good idea. Maybe we can make a little book club. What did you have in mind for her?” “Age-appropriate things,” Mary smirked. I think she was trying to make a point or something. If she’s not careful, she’s gonna wake up one of these days and find me giving her a very dirty look. That’ll fix her wagon. Mary continued, cuz she’s always continuing, “Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking, Ramona, and Harriet the Spy.” “Why those,” I asked. “Cuz they’re all about quirky little girls who get into adventures like you.” “I’m not a little girl, and I’m not quirky!” Why are they looking at me like that? I’m so normal my brother nicknamed me ‘Abby Normal’ when we were kids. Yep, that’s how he said it, I think. “And why exactly are you making me a reading list anyway?” “Cuz you need some mental stimulation.” True story, but “I get plenty of mental stimulation. Trying to stay ahead of you takes serious mental energy.” “When’s the last time you stayed ahead of me?” I was gonna answer that, but instead I turned to Nana and said, “See how mean she is to me?” And Nana, bless her heart, had the temerity to reply, “My daughter loved The Babysitters Club. They’re probably still in the basement.” “Daffy could use some help learning to babysit. I called the Red Cross, and they said she’s too old to take their babysitter certification course.” “You did not.” Which is when she looked at me with her maybe-I-did-maybe-I-didn’t face. “Anyway, I read lots.” I’m very well read, actually. Hence my erudition and comfort breaking all the grammar rules whenever I heccin want. At the rate I’m going, there’s gonna be more words in my computer’s dictionary that I made up than there are words it came with. Might take a million years, but I’ll get there. We she-gods are eternal and stuff. “Not as much as you used to.” That’s actually true. “These modern times killed my attention span.” “So some easy books will be perfect. And you’d better read them cuz there will be quizzes.” “You’re gonna make quizzes?” and btw, Nana was still there, of course, probably thinking we’re more entertaining than any of the weirdness on daytime talk shows. “I got them online. There’s all sort of learning aids online these days to help teach little girls.” And then – get this nonsense – she poked me in my side where I’m ticklish. I only a flinched a little. “Fine,” I said to her. I’ll read her stupid books. Maybe they’ll even give me ideas for new ways to misbehave. Like … surveilling people. That’s what Harriet the Spy does, right? Or is that just peeping when you’re an adult? Maybe I’ll just peep at Mary. That’s allowed, most of the time. We munched cookies and kept chatting, and yes, they did that thing where they talk about me like I’m not there for a bit, but at least neither of them saw me rolling my eyes. “Ready to go home and get cleaned up,” Mary asked me. “Sure.” “Thanks for helping me,” Nana said to me. “Anytime. Thanks for getting me into gardening.” No idea if Nana saw Mary goose me on our way back to our own yard, but I’m positive she couldn’t have heard Mary whisper, “Let’s get you into the tub. Is your pull-up still dry?” “It’s sweaty and gross, actually.” “O sure, it’s just sweat.” “It is!” “Mhmm.” “Mary, it is.” “Of course. Whatever you say, silly goose.” “Can I be a silly mongoose instead?” “Nope. You’re too little.” “Marrry!” “Cutie.” “Meanie.”