Alex Bridges

I was gonna write a new chapter but instead I’m having dinner with my mom and dad. And it’s grownup food too. Hmmph!?

I always smile when I see you’ve commented

Scene #161 “Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right there waiting for you.” “Hmmm (snore) singing.” “Who’s my sleepy girl?” “Huh? O … Is the movie over?” I was very alert in a groggy, consciousness-is-overrated kinda way. “Mhmm.” “Sorry I fell asleep,” I told my Mary. “Was it good?” “No. I feel asleep too.” Me? Snuggle into Mary? Never. It’s so uwu. Yuck. “You were singing me a song. You’re so gay and stuff.” “I’m totally gay for you, Daffodil. Should we go to bed?” “Yeah, I’d hate to have slept through bedtime.” Me, a smartass? Never ever, upon my word as a heterosexual. Um, really. “I’ll get you tomorrow for that,” Mary yawned. “Up you get.” “Carry me.” “Very funny. C’mon.” “(Fake snore).” “Up. You can’t fall asleep with your face buried in my lap. You’ll suffocate.” “Yeah, but what a way to go.” “Up. Maybe a smack bottom will get you moving.” That’s her solution to everything. I’d criticize her for it if it didn’t work nearly all the times. “Ugh. Fine.” Gotta say it: laying down was more fun that’s sitting up. “You’re so much fun when you’re dazed,” my wife who is a smartass and didn’t get the trait from me because I’m ever so sincere said to me. “You love it when I’m dazed. I’m suggestible and stuff.” We trudged up the stairs. I chose to ignore the clock saying it was only 9:30. We’re not losers. We’re just two tired people in a pandemic and the accumulated stress and the … stuff and things. Who wants to list all the stuff and things? Too much work. We got to our bedroom, and Mary turned to face me, putting her hand against my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” “Yeah.” “Just sleepy?” “It’s bedtime.” Sort of. I was groggy. I was in the middle of a really good REM cycle when Mary woke me up with her sweet singing and stroking my face, and I’m pretty sure she blew in my ear. She likes me; I can tell these things. “Let’s get you into your sleep time diaper, and then you can go back to dreamland.” “Mary, the only way that’s happening is if you do it all in your own without waking me up.” I got under my covers, and I was back asleep before Mary even got to the toy box she keeps the diapers in. So how the heck did I wake up in a heccin diaper!?!

Crazy thing is they’ll send me home the same day.

I don't know yet. I'm going to be in way too much pain to be interested in any kind of scene. To quote one orthopedist I saw, I'll "wish I had a hip replacement instead," but a replacement actually isn't an option for me at my age

That’s the million dollar question. I won’t be able to get to the bathroom on my own at first, and I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to change my own diaper either. Either way, me and this lucky person are gonna get to be friends very quickly.

It is increasingly likely I will be having a major orthopedic hip surgery in the Spring. I’ll need help getting to and from the bathroom, showering, etc for a few days. I wear 24/7 (only #1). It’s for enjoyment, but the injury being repaired has contributed to overactive bladder and minor leaks. But I don’t need diapers for them. On the other hand, given how often I have to pee, getting up to use the bathroom that often just may not be practical for a few days. And on yet another hand, I’m not sure, given this is a hip surgery, whether diapers are any better. Let’s assume diapers are okay medically. It’s likely that for a few days I won’t be able to change myself. Is it ethical to expect a hired caregiver to change me post-surgery when I could, theoretically, make it to the bathroom and wear undies?

Scene #160 Art commissioned from JuiceBox (patreon.com/juiceboxart; @JuiceBox_Art on Twitter). We make mistakes in life. I am certainly not immune. As a for instance, I put Mary in charge and gave her full disciplinary control. I may not have done that if I had known then that diapers, according to weird people named Mary, are a behavior improvement tool. Worse, I didn’t know Mary would come to think of me in a diaper as the cutest thing since they invented ducklings. But I’ve gone along with it, and why? Because once when I was very young, I fell into a looking glass on my way to Grandma’s house and a forest witch cursed me an erotic humiliation kink. I do not care for the diapers, I do not care for green eggs and ham, and I do not care for wetting myself. But that I do not care for them, and that not a day goes by when I don’t have to defend my adulthood, honor, and sterling reputation as an upstanding citizen, just creates all the conflicted feels needed to sate an erotic humiliation fetish. Another reason I go along with this nonsense? Because I am a good girl, and Mary is in charge. I am such a good girl that the other good girls roll their eyes at my goodness. I am the poster girl for goodness (setting aside all my alleged misbehavior, which has never been proven in a court of law). I like being good for my Mary. I am a submissive after all, and I want to be in her good graces always and to make her happy cuz I loved her and stuff. It’s not easy being Mary’s good girl cuz, according to Mary, sometimes I have a little devil in me and can be quite the handful. But I try to be good. Really. And then Mary has to go and declare it a diaper day the moment I emerge from the shower. I only pouted a little (in a very good, dignified way that one could only see as little girl behavior if their reasoning was motivated. Really.) And Mary just smiled back at me. Rude? A little. But rather than say anything, I simply stared longingly at my underwear drawer as Mary sealed the last tape. I reminded myself it makes Mary happy, and here’s a secret: she’s the love of my life. I married her for just that reason. I even felt a rush of pleasure hormones as Mary told me, “Such a good girl for holding still.” “What did you call me?” “A good girl,” Mary replied with another one of those beguiling smiles of hers. She’s always beguiling me and stuff. She knows just how much I like being called a good girl. “I have to work for a little bit. Are you going to be okay on your own?” I may, and this is a she said/she said dealy so we’ll never know the truth, have rolled my eyes. “I’m thirty-three. I’m not a little girl.” “You’re my little girl, and if I’m not mistaken, you have some chores to do today.” “I know. I’m the one who wrote the chore calendar.” Really. “Little Miss Sassy pants. Up,” Mary told. I don’t need to be told to do chores (anymore … mostly … or at least much less often than in the past). Me and Mary divide the housework, and ever since I quit my job, I’ve taken on a larger share and actually learned to enjoy it. It’s nice having clean things, plus it’s been very pleasant not finding myself over Mary’s knee getting my butt spanked for not doing my chores and not cleaning up after myself. “Am (spank) I (spank) getting (spank) through (spank) to (you), little (SPANK) girl (SPANK)?” And it turns out the answer is yes. Took a dozen-and-a-half trips over her knee for it to sink in, but yes, it finally, finally did … so I got that going for me. I cleaned for an hour, and the doorbell rang. It was just a delivery person dropping off a package on the porch, but nothing quite like a doorbell to remind a person they’re not wearing any pants. And nothing quite like an exposed diaper to remind a person they should not be so casual with the no-pants wearing. “I’m getting too used to this,” I mused out loud cuz there was no one to talk to. The door to Mary’s office was closed. For reasons I do not understand, and I will forever regret doing this, I texted her, ‘Can I put on some pants?’ I’m allowed to choose what I wear unless Mary lays something out for me, and she has (almost) never made me go pantsless. And yet, because I’m a deeply imperfect yet somehow also perfect person, I asked for permission anyway. I regretted it even before Mary texted me back: ‘Nope.’ I could just picture my wife smirking as she tapped out that reply. She loves it when I just walk into trouble and was ever so damn delighted (I assume) picturing me making a grumpy face and waddling from room to room as I straightened up, put away, and cleaned. She was probably considering having me go into the basement and find the French maid costume I’d worn for Halloween years ago. Or maybe I was thinking that … Or thinking of Mary thinking that … which is still her fault somehow. She’s so mean to me, and only like it almost every single time. The doorbell rang again, another delivery. “We’re popular today,” I said to myself as I watched the delivery person through the peephole. Glad nothing needed my signature. I looked down at Mary’s diaper that she was making me wear. “Pants would be a lot of fun. Just saying.” And girls just wanna have fun. I really can’t say what kind of integrity the music industry has today, but Cindi Lauper circa 1983 wouldn’t have sung that if it wasn’t true. So I texted Mary again. ‘Can I go put on panties yet? I … did the thing.’ I still can’t always bring myself to say it. Mary the Smartmouth replied, ‘You piddled your pampers? They can hold more than one tinkle.’ ‘I need changed.’ ‘Already? That’s a thirsty diaper I put you in.’ I swallowed down my urge to brat back. I was very mature and dignified for a grown woman in a wet diaper getting teased by her wife. ‘Yes, already.’ ‘I don’t know if a little girl is the best judge of when she needs her diaper changed,’ Mary answered, probably holding in a belly laugh during a zoom call with all those colleagues who don’t even know how evil she is. She doesn’t ever regret her misdeeds. She just regrets that she doesn’t always get to see me blushing o so adorably. It’s hard to be Mary’s good girl when I just wanna smack her with a pillow sometimes. ‘Then can you come check? Or I could just go change into underwear if you’re busy.’ See how helpful I am? Certainly not at all the type of person who makes suggestions out of self-interest while framing them as being beneficial to others who are not me. Um, really. ‘It’s not really an underwear kind of day, Daffy.’ Like, what the heck is that heccin supposed to even mean!?! And the better angel of mine who lives on my shoulder told me right then not to take Mary’s bait. I should listen to her more often. I’m a good girl, a great girl, even the best girl, but I’m not perfect (for very brief moments. Rest of the time? I’m a role model for humans everywhere). Besides, life is boring when you always listen to your better angel. So I texted back, ‘But you’re wearing underwear.’ ‘Tone,’ was all Mary replied with. ‘Tone? What tone?!? I’m texting!’ ‘That tone.’ “Ugh! She is so … hmmph!” Yet I swallowed down the metallic taste of indignation and very politely texted back, ‘When are you gonna come check me then?’ ‘At lunch time.’ ‘But this is getting uncomfortable, and that’s an hour away!’ ‘You’re such a cutie. I’m gonna brag to all our friends that my little girl can tell time.’ Ugh! ‘Fine, but I’m putting on pants.’ ‘You’d better not.’ I was uncomfortably wet (my butt was cold!), Mary has pushed my buttons, I wasn’t best pleased with her, and I wasn’t so happy with myself for letting Mary get my goat even when it was so clear that’s what Mary (who is so mean and pretty and nice to me but also so mean sometimes) was trying to do. So with all those reasons in mind – and they are reasons (good ones) and not excuses – I don’t think it should be counted against my to-this-day perfect record of good judgement that I turned in the direction of Mary’s office and declared, “I’m not a little girl! I can wear pants if want to!” Diplomatic? Mayhaps not, but neither was the continental congress when they wrote King Georgie to say, “Go suck a fat one, Kingy Boy!” Didn’t make the final draft, but it made it through several rounds of edits. Really. So I went and put on pants. I can do that whenever I want cuz I am an adult, an agent of my own fate, a decider of my own destiny … and stuff. And not afraid of Mary. Really. She just works for me actually (but please don’t ever tell her I said that). Independence declared and pants on, I finished my cleaning. “Nice job cleaning,” Mary called out from the kitchen when she emerged from her office. She peaked around the corner and saw me absolutely not pouting on the couch. Really. I was feeling downright giddy; freedom of pants is such a rush. Certainly wasn’t at all nervous what her reaction would be. And sure, maybe I should’ve thought ahead a little more and not given into a bratty impulse just cuz Mary teased me, but on the other hand, I fear no woman named Mary. Farthest from my mind was the hope that she’s actually a T-Rex and wouldn’t be able to see that I’d disobeyed so long as I didn’t move. Really. I suspected trickery cuz Mary isn’t one to just let these things slide, but she was gone for a few minutes. Maybe she decided not to make a thing out of it. The plot thickened, as they say … whatever that means. And then (gulp) Mystery Mary re-appeared in the hallway holding the barstool and that sunuvabitching evil bath brush. I may be a good girl, but I am NOT a surrender monkey. I was on my feet freedom fighting (verbally) in a way that wasn’t, as some witnesses to whom I am married describe it, whiny and pouting. “I can wear pants if I want to!” “Of course you can, just so long as you’re willing to face the consequences.” “What consequences? There are no consequences! You almost never don’t let me wear pants!” “You never ask,” Mary replied calmly as she set the stool down in the middle of the room. I hate that stupid stool. My hands and feet don’t even touch the floor when I get spanked over Mary’s knee on that thing. ! I’m just over her lap like a little kid draped. I mean, sure, like all fine things I drape well, but I heccin hate it and that’s exactly why Mary brings the damn thing out when she quote “wants to teach me a stupid lesson” unquote (I may have added the ‘stupid’ part). “That doesn’t even make any sense!” “I said no. You disobeyed. What kind of top would I be if I didn’t spank my defiant little bottom’s bottom? Besides, everyone knows little girls like you need consequences when they make naughty choices.” “I’MNOTALITTLEGIRL!!!” “You are the grumpiest little girl,” Mary scoffed at – again, this is her characterization and it’s just so not even accurate – my outburst. “A spank on your reset button is gonna do you a world of good. Come to me.” I hate that stool, and I heccin hate that heccin bathbrush. All the speed and sting of a hairbrush plus the thud of a paddle like some mutant spawn from a hairbrush hate-screwing a school paddle and they weren’t even married, and that stupid mutant shouldn’t even live with us! It should go live with the X-men and fight crime or something with the other mutants. It hardly ever comes off the wall cuz it’s so next-level with the pain and the hurting and o I hate it so much! I may be a spanking enthusiast, and I may like a good hard spanking a whole lot more after than during, but that thing hurts too much to like it ever. All conflicted again trying to be a good girl and Mary’s mean decree and the barstool and that friggin weapon of ass destruction. Hmmph! But I’m brave. I’m decisive, and I’m brave, so in a stentorian voice of certainty, I said, “Nuh-n-no.” Decisive, right? Yes right. Mary’s eyebrow arched. She’s not used to hearing me say no. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been too good a girl for too long. “Excuse me, little girl? Get your butt over to me now.” I’m cool as a cucumber under all the circumstances ever. Wasn’t like I felt my heartbeat rising or anything … and stuff. “N-no. Cuz I didn’t, um … do … anything.” In fact, I’ve actually never misbehaved in my life. Really. “I’m the one who decides when you’ve earned a spanking. You disobeyed, you know it, you need a sound spanking, and you’re getting one right this instant, young lady. Don’t make me come get you.” “But …” “Daphne Ann, I’m going to count to three. If I have to walk over to …” “I’m not a toddler! I’m not impressed by counting!” I had just enough time for stupid angel (who never makes her case well; this was all her fault) in my head to say ruh roh before Mary was on her feet and had me by the elbow. She spun around, sat herself down on the sofa, and twirled me over her lap in one motion. Think hard before you marry a spanking ninja ballerina who’s bigger than you. I mean, it’s the best decision I ever made and I wouldn’t change it for all the gold in Narnia, but in the moment, I was wishing very much that her hand-eye coordination was just a little off. I almost couldn’t hear her scolding me over the thwump of the frantic but expertly delivered spanks she was landing on the seat of my Forbidden Pants. “Not a toddler? Then why are you over my knee getting a spanking over your diaper?” “Lemme go!” I’m not a brat, but sometimes I do perform acts of brattitude, and I must’ve woken up on the bratty side of the bed that morning, I guess. I tried to swim off Mary’s lap as the spanks rained down. Not that I could feel them through my pants and Mary’s diaper (that I was kind enough to wear and, um, utilize on her behalf, and where is my thank you for that, btw?), but it was embarrassing. And stupid age play-esque erotic humiliation fetish and the spanking and the conflicted feels and it’s not like I wanted to be so obstinate, but I do hafta to defend my adulthood and independence and honor and nobility and stuff. It’s actually a full-time job since I live with Mary. She keeps me on my toes. “When I tell you no, little girl, that means no. Up.” She spanked me to my feet, and no, I wasn’t sniffling and I didn’t wipe away a single embarrassed, regretful tear. Rumors and innuendo. Propaganda from the Regime of Mary, Queen of Making-Up-Rules-As-She-Goes actually … and stuff. Nor did I just stand there chastened and obediently holding still as Mary took my freedom pants down. “All this fuss over a pair of pants. Do you feel like a big girl now, getting your pants taken down so I can spank your bare bottom?” Like I was even going to dignify that with a response … until she smacked my thigh. “No.” “Other girls your age who still get spanked are allowed to take their own pants down for their spankings, but are you allowed to do that?” “No.” “That’s right. You’re too little to bare your own bottom. Step out.” Mary picked the pants up after I stepped out of them and started to fold them neatly as though even she respected their symbolism (or was just trying to rub it in and make my consequence last). She paused, and I saw this smile spread across her face. Very impolite. I married a tall, strong, ninja ballerina with hardly any manners at all. “Daffy,” she said sweetly as though my what-embarrassing-thing-is-she-gonna-do-or-say-to-me-next antenna wasn’t picking up all the signals, “did you wanna put pants on cuz you were embarrassed for me to see your leaky diaper?” “It’s not leaky!” Defending one’s reputation is hard sometimes. Especially when it’s futile, like if you’re me and live with Mary. Nonetheless, I wasn’t wearing a leaky diaper. More propaganda (that happened to be true, I found out later … dammit). “Then how did your pants get wet? Just goes to show little girls don’t know when they need a diaper change.” “Marrry! I told you I needed a change!” I stomped my foot. I know it’s adorable, and I hate being adorable when I’m trying to be tken seriously, but I can’t help it sometimes. Even I, the very paragon of forbearance and equanimity, let some less than sterling mannerisms slip out when my Mary pushes the right buttons, and the I’m-so-sweet-to-this-helpless-little-girl tone of voice definitely pushes a right button or four. But I didn’t, for the record of truth which is what I always tell, pair my foot stomp with a clenched fist and a “Hmmph!” “I know it’s hard being a girl your age still in diapers, but you know I’d never judge you for needing your pampers.” “I don’t need them! You make me wear them.” “Because you need them.” “I don’t need them!!” “Yes, you do. Of course you do, because I say so. It’s just the cherry on the sundae that they make you so cute I can hardly even stand it. And usually they keep you out of trouble, but I guess a leaky Luvs just brought your grumpy out, didn’t it?” That wasn’t an actual question, and I wasn’t going to dignify it with with an answer. I just stood there … not pouting and not avoiding eye contact. Really. “Was your bottom just so uncomfortable you just couldn’t help but act out, hmm? I know little girls have trouble controlling their impulses when they’re tired or uncomfy. It’s just such a shame cuz your bottom is about to be a whole lot more uncomfortable, but it will help you learn.” “Marrrry, none of this woulda happened if you had just let me change.” “None of this would’ve happened if you had listened and obeyed, but you didn’t, so it’s happening,” Mary said, her tone returning to that of a calm, firm, determined disciplinarian. It’s so unfortunately arousing when does that … dammit. “We’ll keep that diaper under you just in case you piddle during your spanking.” “I will not and you know it,” I declared in a declaratory way befitting declarations that declare you’re not about to wet yourself while your wife has you over her lap for a bare bottom spanking. Mary led me toward the stool and sat herself down. I know a thing or two about poise and aplomb in the face of adversity, so I was all prepared to submit (like a good girl – I am too such a good girl!) … until I saw the bath brush again. Not that I panicked. I just exclaimed in a very exclamatory way, “Not the bath brush!” “Over.” “Please not the brush,” I asked (didn’t beg; fake news … but I did dig my heels into the carpet and, um, try to pull away). “What has gotten into you today?” Wow, that is such a good question. What bee got into my bonnet today? It took a little more of tug than usual, but Mary – tall, strong, athletic, brunette, married to me and I like her a lot and stuff but do not care for the bath brush or that stupid stool either – got me over her lap despite my heroic (and maybe slightly half-hearted cuz I really am a good girl and love my Mary) resistance. “Raise your hips,” she said to me. Like hey, can we at least acknowledge my heroic resistance and also leave that diaper up and, ya know, not spank me bare bottom? Or at all? “Not the brush!” “Daphne Ann, you need to calm down, hold still, and listen to me.” “I will, but not the brush. I hate the brush and I hate this stool and I hate this diaper and you’re just being mean today! Mean Mary!” I may be small, but I’m also fierce and stuff. I wasn’t just gonna let Mary hold me over her lap without at least expending some real effort. Can’t just meekly submit (at least not all the time; what fun is that?). She got a firm grip on my hip, and again with the rudeness, delivered a few thunderspanks to the back of my thighs to the tune of, “Settle! Down!” “Make me!” I probably shouldn’t have said that. I should try to figure out what exactly got into me today, assuming I survive. Witnesses get confused, documents get lost or destroyed by the accidents of history (or by submissives who don’t want certain things recorded for posterity). All of which is to say that historians weren’t there, so you can’t fully trust them when they say Mary did, in fact, make me settle down and hold still. She skipped the hand spanking warm-up (which is in the Geneva Conventions, btw), and went straight to the bath brush. Perhaps, in her view, my behavior warranted a lot more spanks (and harder) spanks than she usually gives me with that thing. And I don’t mind admitting how much it hurt. I’m the wronged party here, and people should know just what she did to me (but also please don’t spread this around – so humiliating!). It took two spanks to produce the first sobs. It took three more to provoke real tears. Ten more, and I stopped thrashing. “Finally holding still,” as Mary grumbled. She sounded a little out of breath. Almost like, as a random for instance, she was perched precariously on a bar stool trying to hold on to a grown woman who was trying to get the heck off her lap, and spank said grown woman at the same time. Glad I made her work for it at least (further proof I’m not a little girl). Also glad she held onto me and that I didn’t tips us over. Anyhoo … Eight more spanks, and my wailing turned into a sobbing moan as I laid limply over my Mary’s knee. And ten more until, I guess, Mary was confident whatever naughtiness and yucky feelings had provoked such bad choices were all cried out of me. “Shhh,” Mary cooed, “it’s all over.” She rubbed my butt and my back as she surveyed the scene. The diaper was on the floor, I was a sweaty mess, and so was Mary. She’d need to comb my hair again before her next Zoom meeting. And how the heck did I manage to kick a sock off? “Can you sit up?” Of course I could. I’m very big and brave and capable. I didn’t need but did accept Mary’s help as I pivoted straight into her lap, put my cheek against her shoulder, and continued my crying (which I was only doing cuz my butt and pride her; I’m not a little girl! Really!!!). “I’m sorry I was ba-a-a-ad,” I (allegedly) sobbed. Very big and brave and … stuff and things. “You weren’t bad, Daphne. You just made some bad choices. You’re my good girl.” “Waaaahhhh!” “Aww, sweetie.” She chose to rock me a little. I didn’t ask for it or need (not that I hated it but also yes I did cuz I’m not a little girl). “You always cry harder when I spank bottom and call you my good girl.” And yet she always says it, which is good cuz I’d be an unhappy Daffy if she didn’t say it. “Cuz I love you and I’m trying to be good for you and I’m sorrrrrryyyyy!” She chuckled. “You silly goose. I love you too, and you’re always my good girl and always will be, even when you make bad choices.” Did you hear what she said? She said I’m always her good girl! Heck yes! My diaphragm cramped with the occasional sob and sniffle, but the tears dried up. “Are you going to obey me?” “Yes.” “Are you ever gonna fight me again when I decide you need your bottom spanked?” “No,” I meeped. “Good. I don’t like having to give you such hard spankings. If I had my way, the bath brush would go in the trash, but it can’t do that until your behavior tells me you won’t ever need me to spank you with it again. Do you understand that, that I don’t spank your bottom just because?” “Mhmm.” “Good. And you got your consequence, and everything is forgiven. How about we make lunch together?” “Mmm-mmm.” “Mmm-mmm? You wanna snuggle longer?” “Yes please.” “Okay. Your Mary loves you very much.” Ooo, with the soft kissing. I think she likes me. Maybe even like likes me “I love you too.” Mary held me for a few more minutes. Told you she likes me and stuff. “Alright, up you go.” “Not yet.” “Do you need me to keep hugging bad feelings away, or are you just trying to delay getting diapered again?” “Um, no … really.” “I think someone’s fibbing. You know what fibbers get?” “I’m up!” I sprang to her feet. “I’m up and my butt really hurts.” Heccin seriously! Ouch and stuff! “And your huggies are gonna hold the heat in longer. Let that be a reminder to make good choices. Lie down.” I resisted mentally, for the record, if not physically or verbally as Mary got a dry diaper from the changing basket under the coffee table and put me into it. “Let’s go blow your nose and wash your pretty face, then we’ll have lunch together. Sound good?” “Mhmm … Mary? Can we have sex as soon as you’re done with work?” “Ha! Of course we can.” I know this is crazy, but I’m pretty sure she was just as aroused as me by the whole episode. Weird, right? “Can I get started without you?” I was asking for my friend. “You can go crazy on yourself so long as that diaper stays on the whole time … Are you making uwu faces at me?” “No, I swear … um, really.” “My silly little girl.” “My Mary.” And my butt (and pride and stuff)! My poor, poor butt (and pride and stuff)! And I didn’t even do anything (except for all that stuff I did)! I’m a good girl! Really!

Scene #159 “We need to talk,” Mary said to me. “No.” “No?” “I don’t wanna talk. Besides, we’re married. It’s too late to break up.” “We’re very married. That’s why I want to help you with your problem.” How the heck did I end up as the one always accused of being up to something? I was literally doing dishes, and there’s Mary putting her latest plot into motion. Does she even work anymore? Is this what it’s like being married to Homer Simpson, one misadventure after another when you’re just trying to be a good homemaker? “What problem?” I don’t even know why I asked. It just encourages her. “Your out-of-control libido.” “My libido is not …” Shush! We’re about to get laid. “Help me how? Asking for my friend.” “A very special kind of therapy.” Torn: of course she was up to something, and of course it would be something possibly more fun for her, but the question was whether I would like it more than dislike it. The way she was looking at me didn’t help clarify that at all. “You’re grinning at me like jackal. Did you know that do that?” “Won’t you be my good girl and trust me?” Avoiding the question and pushing my buttons - classic Mary. “Don’t … Grr! If you push that button too often, it’s gonna wear out.” Jackals are always doing that! Hmmph! “Has it yet?” “… No.” For the record, I didn’t stick my tongue out at anybody. That’s just a lie. “Then let’s go upstairs, and we’ll see if we can’t get it all out of you.” Warning lights started blinking. “Get what out? Out of where?” She withdrew the blindfold from her pocket and twirled it around her finger. “No, but what out of where?” “You’ll see.” Stupid irony. She walked around behind me like a predator circling prey, and lemme tell ya this for nothing - as someone very used to being the biggest, baddest shark in these waters, the look on her face right before she disappeared from my sight sent my fight-flight-or-freeze response into a tingly overdrive. I wouldn’t say I chose freeze so much as my body chose for me. Probably why I suddenly felt very cool and shivered a little as she put that blindfold over my eyes and paused to breathe all hot and stuff on my neck and nibble my ear lobe. I wasn’t scared. I just had an excess of adrenaline, which happens to all of us badasses when an apex predator like Mary decides it’ll be more fun if you can’t see what’s she’s doing to you. “Y-you’ve been getting that out a lot more.” “The blindfold? I guess I have.” “Don’t you have to work today?” “Mhmm. But the company is very understanding of caregiver responsibilities.” “Yippy?” We had talked about not putting the blindfold on until we got up the stairs, but I guess my Mary was an eager beaver. She led me up the stairs, and I didn’t even stub my toe so one of us must’ve been doing a good job. “You and yoga pants,” she said to me as she took my yoga pants away. I mean, I’d get them back later, but I was actively using them to not be cold. “It’s cold in here,” I let her know. “You’ll be warm in a second, sweetie.” “Maybe if you lay on top of me…” I got no response. Instead, she raised my arms and took my shirt off. Let me advance a notion: if my libido is too high, the cause is a chronic and debilitating case of Mary. Symptoms include heavy petting, pinching, grabbing, nibbling, and all that even before she steered me toward the bed. “Face down, Daffy.” Another symptom: firm cupping sensations around the butt and thigh area. “Your diaper is a little wet. When did that happen?” “It’s yours, and recently. And did I mention your punishment for my alleged rebellion sucks?” “You’ll wear them til you learn.” “Learn what?” “To obey forever and always.” Ah. Touché. “Spread your arms and legs out,” my libido therapist instructed me. “Has this treatment been peer reviewed,” I asked while complying. I’m an active healthcare consumer, but not so active I forget I’m submissive whatever-Mary-wants-to-do-to-me consumer (most of the time). And unlike, say, a health insurance company, she really does have my best interest at heart. “No, but if you wanna video tape it for some of our peers, we can do that, Daffy. Do you wanna contribute to science?” “Um … Will I ever receive this treatment again?” “Maybe.” “Then maybe for this first one, we, um … Can we record it for posterity but maybe not share it with anyone?” Perhaps I should’ve also asked what she was going to do to me, but I guess I trust her that it would be something worth watching again just in case we learned anything to submit to the New England Journal of Medicine or the Lancet or … maybe a scrapbook. We should keep a scrapbook (that we never show anyone). “What a good idea. Better to have it on video and not need it. That’s what I like about you, Daffodil; all those raging hormones, and you’re still thinking the good of humanity.” “I’m very nice. … Hey, Mary?” “Yes, my love?” “Couldn’t help but notice you’re tying my wrists to the bed.” “You’re a good noticer.” “But why? Are you gonna hit me with something?” I wasn’t in the mood for that. It’s like chocolate: I love chocolate, but I don’t want it all the time … Bad example. It’s like … … something, probably. Wow, maybe my appetites really are outta control. “No, sweetie, I’m gonna do nothing but nice things to you. Lift your hips for me; okay, down.” I heard velcro. Then I was laying on something hard. And then I felt something being fastened. I had a theory. “Is that too tight?” “No.” “Are you comfy?” “Mhmm.” “Gimme a footsie.” I have feet, for the record, two of them, each of them quite adept at playing footsie but neither of them a footsie. Very different. I’m an adult, after all. For proof, my wife tied me spread eagle to the bed, face down with what was so obviously the magic wand put backward into the strap-on harness so it was pressed against me (firmly). That is no way to cure an overactive libido, but I didn’t want to tell her that cuz it might hurt her feelings (and make her change her mind). “Turn this way,” she said, and when I did, someone - not sure who cuz I was blindfolded - gave me the sweetest kiss on my cheek. And someone - could’ve been the same person - ran a fingertip from my neck all the way down my spine to butt. I don’t mind telling you it made me wiggle a little cuz it tickled and stuff and I like it when she caresses my back. My mom would do that when I was very little when she was putting me to bed, and Mary very happily picked up the habit. “Anything you need,” Mary asked me. “I don’t know how to answer that right now.” True story. Like, always up for a cookie? But no, nothing I needed right then. “I love you muchly. I’m going to put your headphones on, and I’ll come check on you in a little bit. Shout if you need me.” “But what happens now,” I asked because, um, just seemed like the sort of treatment your therapist should stick around for. Maybe participate in. “Try to get some rest,” is all she said to me. Not terribly helpful, if you wanna true story. She put my headphones on me and turned on the noise canceling, but she didn’t put any music on. I got another kiss, and she pulled a blanket over me. So just me blindfolded, noise canceled, tied to the bed, and with the vibrator pressed against my happy place through a punishment diaper that I so don’t deserve. To the extent I appreciated it in the moment, it was solely because I wouldn’t need to change the sheets after this so-called therapy. I don’t think Mary even has a license to practice medicine. You know how when you go to the doctor, they’re always running behind? Like, you show up on time, and then wait. And they take you to the exam room, and you wait. And so-and-so will be right in, and you wait. Well, when Mary plays doctor, she goes for the realism; I waited. I waited. And then I waited. And then I started to fall asleep. I was in that weird sleepy space where your brain starts to dream while you’re still conscious, and this may surprise you what with my record of being very serious at all the times and never straying into the land of fantasy and nonsense, but when my brain starts dreaming while I can still hear it, it says some crazy stuff. It’s very entertaining, and I’m loathe to miss a word, which is exactly what happened when this faint buzzing sound interrupted my inner monologue. Not just a sound, mind you, but a sensation. Details get fuzzy after that. Drifting consciousness, interrupted napping, space travel, seeing stars, spirit animals, communing with the gods, time travel. And those are just the parts I was awake for. And I’m pretty sure at least once I was being observed by my therapist. She sat down on the bed for a minutes (and I think she was touching herself) and then left again. Not that I blame her, cuz if my hands were free, I woulda been touching myself. At least at first; even I have my limits. Really. “(Kiss). Wake up, Daffy.” “Hrrrm.” “You make the cutest sleepy noises, but it’s time to get up. Where did your headphones go?” “I dunwunnagouh (snore).” Or at least I’ve been told that’s what I said. I doubt the veracity of that account. “You need a bath.” She untied my wrists and ankles, and I took the opportunity to bury my face in my arms. So tired. So limp and flaccid and tired. “Where did your sleep mask go?” Look, where does anything ever go? What purpose do such questions serve? And who is even in the room with me? “You’re freezing,” she said, and okay, true story cuz the blanket mostly came off at some point. “C’mon, open those peepers and let’s get you cleaned up.” Velcro was torn asunder, and with a violent tug that jangled my jingle, the hard, bulbous thing I’d been laying on was wrenched out from under me. It was quite the jolt, which is why I exclaimed, “Kuumphhh!” and sat up so quick I got dizzy … Or maybe I was already dizzy. Wasn’t sure where I was what with all the star voyaging and time portals I slipped through, but I recognized my person when I saw her. “Hi,” I said. “Welcome back to the land of the living. Did you sleep well … Daffy? Earth to Daffy.” “Mary.” How fuzzy the world is. And since when does our bedroom have so many right angles? … Tired … “Are you okay?” “I’m thirsty.” “I got a drink for you waiting on the rim of the tub. Let’s go.” She helped me up, and glancing behind me, I saw that I’d be doing laundry after all. For some reason, and who knows what it is, I seem to have sweated through all the bedding during my journey to the field of reeds … and the other field of summer grass … and this place with clouds. I musta visited five or eight places. They say traveling is about the trip and not the destination, to which I say - they’re both pretty damn awesome. No wonder I got so sweaty. “I’m cold,” I told my Mary. “It’ll be a warm bath, and then we’ll get you some dinner. It’s almost six.” “I had dreams.” “Good dreams or bad dreams?” “And you were there, and this lion … my childhood dog … a woman named Glenda who had this special wand.” “What else happened in your dream?” “Bright lights, colors. Lots of different pinks. I tasted some of it.” “Some of what,” Mary asked me as she started untaping the diaper shed out me in. “The colors.” Always wanted to taste colors. I made grabby hands for the bottle of water and practically tore the nipple off. Maybe Mary wanted me to be little and nurse a bottle just then, but I needed the water a lot faster than that. “I think your therapy was a success,” Mary said as she seemed to (gross) inspect the diaper. “I’ve changed lots of your diapers, Daphne, and this is by far the cummiest diaper you’ve ever made.” “More,” was my response and I held the empty bottle toward her. I made a mental note to have a word with her about what she’d just said, but first, water. “Such a thirsty girl.” She refilled it at the sink. “Into the tub.” I sat down and resumed my gulping. “How do you feel now?” “Still sleepy,” I yawned. “Hmmm. Maybe three hours is too much therapy for you.” “You said it’s close to six.” “Mhmm.” “That’s more than three hours.” “Three hours of therapy. I gave you some breaks in between.” “O … Can we have sex later?” “ … Are you … Really?” “Yes really.” I mean, sure, I was exhausted, felt weak as kitten, and sore like I’d been riding a horse all day and doing kegels the whole time I was sitting on top of the sweaty beast, but I couldn’t let Mary think she’d gotten the better of me. True story.

I already did that. It hurt! And if it hurt that much using it on myself, I don’t even want to imagine what it would feel like in someone else’s hands ?

If I inspired one person to buy that brush and apply it to a butt, it will have all been worth it ?

Okay ???

Scene #158 Inspired by a real brush. ____________________ The mail arrived. That is literally all that happened. Mary was the one who went and got it. I merely walked in the kitchen to see if my mail-order medicine had arrived. And what did I find? I found Mary, standing over a torn Amazon delivery bag, smiling like she’d gotten a present she’d always wanted, and she was tapping that present into her palm with a wistful look plastered to her face. I saw that present, a hairbrush that at a glance I could tell was a weapon of ass destruction, and I said to myself, Get thee behind me, Satan! Not today! I did an about face sharp enough to make the Marines proud and was halfway into taking giant steps the hell outta there as speedily as that time I walked in on my parents. But the commandant I married ordered me to, “Stay.” “But I didn’t do anything,” I whined liked the whiniest person who ever whined when they were whining (which I had every right to). Slumped shoulders, defeated expression, gaping frown, barely holding my torso upright as I spun around and shuffled toward her cuz I’m a good girl (a very good girl!) who does what she’s told (most of the tine). Any sane person would’ve been running down the block knocking over trashcans to slow their pursuer. “I didn’t say you did anything,” my Mary who is mean to me said as she took me by my upper arm and tugged me toward the kitchen table. Dragging my feet would be an understatement; I had them firmly planted on the floor and was gliding along on my socks (stupid collaborationist socks!). She turned a chair around and sat down in it. “But I don’t wanna spanking,” I said – no, declared! With fist clenching, foot stomping, and all the pouting I could muster. You don’t fight a brush like that. You just try to make it feel sorry for you. But some brushes are pitiless. “And I’m not going to spank you.” Wait, really? No; not really. She yoinked me off my feet and over her knee. “You said …” “Just as soon as I’m done spanking, I’m not going to spank.” SPANK. “Ouch! That hurts!” “I was hoping for that.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank. “Marrry! This isn’t fair!” “It’s very unfair, you silly goose.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank. “Let’s get these down.” “No!” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank. “Eeeeeeee! Stop! It hurts!” “It’ll hurt (SPANK) less if you hold (SPANK) still.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank. That is specious reasoning, which is why while she was busy spanking, I was busy trying to freestyle medley my way off her lap. I mean, how much more could face planting onto the kitchen floor hurt than that brush? “And these too.” “NO! NOT BARE! MAR-EEEEEEEEEE!” “Of course (SPANK!) bare.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank! “So mee-hee-hee-ean.” “Very mean.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank! “Wuhaa-aaa-aaa.” Spank! spank! spank! “There. Look at me.” Fine! Fine I will! I’ll look at her, and she can see what she did! She reached over and wiped a tear off my face, making one of her trademark o-really faces and rubbing the teardrop between her forefinger and thumb. Yeah! Really! “Daphne, this is a real tear.” “Of course it’s real you (stampeding of victimized vicuñas) and (bleats of innocent ibexes) and (lamentations of oppressed submissives everywhere) and just mean! Mean! (Wounded wookie)!” SPANK! “All done?” “ … MEEEAAAANN!!!!” SPANK! “Hmmph!” “Now you’re done.” What can I say? The woman knows me; I was done. “Sit up.” She helped me sit up, but I was having none of it. I was on my feet and rubbing my butt and scowling at her something fierce. I was fierce! I AM fierce! Grrrr!!! And stuff too, cuz hell hath no fury like a bottom scorched. “Daffy …” “No! No, Mary! Bad Mary!” She started to get up. “No! You stay for a change!” And I’ll tell you what I did next. Just to show her I won’t put up with her shenanigans and raw exercises of domme power, that there are consequences for her actions just like she’s always telling me there are for mine! I sat down in her lap, put my cheek against her chest, and held onto her like a koala to her favorite tree. That’ll show her. That’ll show her good! Mary with the demon brush and the … soft kisses on my hair and fingertips going up and down my back and palm patting my newly spanked bare bottom. “No one does histrionics like you, Daffodil.” “I’ll histrionic you,” I softly bellowed back while wiping my nose on her shirt. “Ha!” “That thing heccin hurts!” “The reviews said it would. I thought you were gonna swim right off my lap.” “What reviews? It came from Amazon.” “The reviews on Amazon.” “The reviews on Amazon are about spanking?” “Mhmm. You wanna read them later?” “ … Yes.” “You wanna go upstairs and lemme rub lotion on your butt?” “Mhmm.” “Up you go.” “Can I return that brush tomorrow,” I asked because reasons. “No, sweetie. It’s going to live on the end table in the living room.” “What!?!” “It’s perfect for quick, on-the-spot corrections. You’ll be glad it’s always in reach. Just think of how well behaved you’ll be. Won’t that feel good?” “No! Can we at least keep it in a drawer? It’s gonna give me nightmares.” “My little drama princess.” “Meanest queen ever.” “Love you.” “Love you back.”

I think Daphne is my niece’s spirit animal. Her grandma: “let’s try using our indoor voices” Niece (3 years old): “no. I’m a little wound up is all”

Scene #157 Does anyone remember when the ASPCA was airing those Sarah McLachlan Angel commercials? All those pictures of sick and injured and malnourished dogs and that saccharine song playing over them? Holy shit did I fugly cry. Those were on before I met Mary, but I stumbled onto it on YouTube years later, when I did know Mary, and she made a rule: I am not allowed to watch that commercial. Anywhere I encounter it, I must look away. Of course, that rule would’ve been much more useful earlier that same week, because by then it was too late. Too late for what? Too late to avoid the spanking I got when the credit card statement came. Mary praised my soft heart and generosity while reminding me we were trying to get me out of credit card debt and that I literally couldn’t afford to be quite (or half) as charitable as I had been. This anecdote by way of pointing out that I am a very giving, charitable person. Too charitable for my own good. For the right cause or the right person, I’ll give the shirt off my back and throw in the buttons. I’ll even (dammit!) give up my pride, which is why it sucks to be me sometimes, like on Valentine’s Day. Because Mary is the right person, making her happy is the right cause, and she said she wanted a surprising experience (or experiential surprise) for her present. Well, I figured one out. I figured it out, and I’m still processing the consequences. This story of good intentions and misbegotten ideas is best begun, of all the unusual places in this unusual universe Mary and I are living our unusual lives in, in the guest bathroom. Our heroine (that’s me, btw) is sitting on the edge of the tub, knowing Mary is hard at work on work stuff just one room away. I was sitting there giving myself a pep talk and I tried to work up my courage to actually do the deed. “She’ll like it,” I told myself. “She loves when you do little stuff on your own … Remember how happy she was when you went into her office and just made an uwu face without saying a word and she just held you for, like, an hour? She was so happy, she was practically glowing … But it’s … No! No! Stop coming up with reasons not to. It’s not for you. It’s for her. She’s your Mary. It’s Valentine’s Day. You do it. You just … just do it and be done with it. Do it, turn on the crocodile tears, and let Mary take care of you. It’ll be over soon.” Which turned out to be more easily said than done. You think I’d be pretty good at it considering I’ve been doing it for so long, but my body knew better. It did not want to do the deed, and I spent more time trying to relax and let it happen than I did on the mental prep. Turns out, understatement of this young year, I should’ve spent more time on the mental prep because I was heccin not prepared.. The feeling of relief quickly gave way to, O my god. I can’t believe I did that. I … calm down. Just … calm down. Or … no, stop that. No crying. They’re supposed to be crocodile tears, not real ones! Not real ones! … … … I! Want! My! Mary! Which was the plan anyway, but it was supposed to be a scene. I do it, I get pretend-teary, Mary makes it better. Not I do it, I flip the heck out, Mary makes it better. Maybe it looks the same on the outside, but it feels totally different on the inside (what a poorly timed pun). So me, Daphne, your heroine, shuffling into Mary’s office with real tears on my cheeks. “I was just about to come find you,” Mary said when she heard me cross the threshold into her office. She leaned forward to switch off her monitors. A big snurfle from me, and she turned my way, her expression instantly turning into her o-no-what-happened face, the real kind ad not the kind she makes during scenes. On her feet in a heartbeat, She crossed the room in a single bound and had me in her arms saying, “Daffy, what happened?” I tried really hard to say, and all I got out was, “Hhh hhh hhh hhh.” “You need to take a breath, sweetie.” O, for cripe’s sake, like I wasn’t trying to do exactly that. I don’t need lessons in breathing. I need lessons in making choices that don’t result in me sobbing like a family member named My Dignity died. “(Sad bunny noises) and (mourning mooses) and your present and (regretful rhino).” She can usually decipher me, but I guess I was quite the mess. “Daphne, Daphne, look at me. Is everyone alright?” “Uh-(snurf)-huh-(fle).” “Are you hurt?” “Nuh-(snort)-uh.” Damn, I’m fun to be around; word play, kinky, the occasional grown-woman-crying-so-hard-there’s-snot-bubbles. If I were any prettier, we’d need more Kleenex. True story. “Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you crying? Use your words.” I use words like nobody’s business! Just not when I’ve gone and undermined one of my last shreds of self-respect. “Come,” she said and led me to our living room she sat down in the big chair and pulled me into her lap. “Shhh,” she cooed at me. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. It’ll be …” Ah, she finally notices what’s amiss, when I’m in her lap and she’s sharing just a sliver of the sensation I’m experiencing. “Daffy, did you … Are your pants wet?” YES AND I HATE IT AND I WANNA UNDO IT AND I CAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN’’’’’’’’’’TTTTTTT! Which is pronounced, “Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” “Um, it’s okay? It’s just … ugh. You’re soaked. You must’ve really had to go.” “I didn’t mean to-hoo-hoo!” To be clear, the upsetting myself part. The wetting my black yoga pants, I meant to do. “Well, um, accidents happen. You don’t have to cry. Did you just forget you weren’t wearing your diapers?” “They’re (sob) not (sob) mine (waaaaiiiillll)!” “Shhh, please try to calm down. It happened, and I’m not mad. It’s okay. I’ll make it all better.” She had better make it all better! It’s her job as the dominant. My job is to be cute, let her use my butt as a stress ball, and make her feel like the most important and cherished person in the world (which she so is!), and her job is to keep me outta trouble, make me feel like the most important and cherished person in the world, and make stuff all better. If we don’t do our jobs, this whole kinky house of cards comes crashing down. “O-hhh!-kay.” “Can we go get you cleaned up, or do you need a few more minutes?” “Clean-hhh-please.” I wanted to be clean, and I wanted my diaphragm to stop cramping. “Using your word like a big girl … O, don’t you go making that face again. I’m just teasing my little girl. C’mon.” We got up, and she started taking us toward the guest bathroom, and did I panic? Of course not. I just … panicked. “No!” Did someone shout? Wasn’t me. Really. “Daffy! What has gotten into you?” “Not in there!” “What’s wrong with …” I’ve been cataloguing Mary’s faces for as long as I’ve known her. The one she made when she abruptly left her sentence incomplete was first observed on a hiking trail way back when we were newly dating. As it’s discoverer, I was entitled to name it, and I dubbed it the my-sock-is-wet face. Little did I know then that all these years later I would discover a subspecies, Mary’s why-is-my-sock-wet face, and in rapid succession, another cousin, Mary’s o-that’s-why-my-sock-is-wet face. To her credit, she was handling the whole situation much better than me, and I’m know far and wide as a good situation handler (who is also sometimes a runaway hot mess on wheels). Mary turned to me, put a hand on each of my shoulders, leaned forward to kiss my forehead, and said nothing. She just kissed me, and hugged me, and made her you’re-a-lot-of-work-sometimes-and-I-love-you-even-more-for-it face. It’s a very reassuring face. And me? I made very grownup, all-is-well-nothing-to-see-hear whimpering sounds as she walked me to the bathroom. It was a crime scene: there was the puddle where my pride drowned in what appeared to be accident (where are the pun police when you need them?). But there was the rug folded up out of the way, suggesting the wetter wanted to make clean up easy, a sure sign of premeditation proving the accident was staged. The charge: reckless indifference to one’s own sense of adulthood, and I was already punishing myself way more than the criminal justice system ever could. And there was Mary ‘Poirot’ Taylor, one arm around my shoulder, surveying the scene and making mental notes to follow up on at the inquest. But for now, she looked down at me – me, who was trying to look everywhere but her eyes – smiled a smirk, and said, “I think I see what kind of accident this was.” “(Sound of me exercising my right to stay silent).” “Wait for me,” she said and kissed my forehead again. And as I was waiting, to my surprise, there I was in the mirror, having not actually shrunken down to two inches tall but merely feeling like it. “Why don’t you step into the tub,” Mary said when she returned with paper towels, cleaner, and a plastic grocery sack already containing one said towel. “I can clean it up,” I said, now feeling more mortified at how mortified I’d been and the scene (and puddle) I’d made. “If I can clean you up, I think I can manage a tile floor. I already got the trail you left in the hallway. Tub,” she said and held my hand as I stepped over the side. It only took her a moment, and she laid the rug back out. She got the stool she started keeping in that bathroom to sit on cuz she likes giving me baths, and ageplay aside, I like it when pretty women rub me all over with soapy hands. Sometimes they do stuff under the water you can’t get away with on TV. True story. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Little girls don’t need to be sorry for having potty accidents,” she replied with a poorly disguised chuckle. “But if you mean for scaring the crap out of me when you came into my office and started crying like someone died, I forgive you; over and one with. I have a little girl to clean up. Arms up.” She got my shirt off and tossed it in the corner. “That was an awfully big accident. You musta been holding it for so long. You shoulda come and gotten me if you didn’t wanna use the potty all by your lonesome.” My brain drowned out the particulars of her monologue with white noise as she peeled my wet leggings down, thinking instead about how it was only a matter of seconds until … “… just may not be ready for … Daphne Ann, are these my panties?” “(Sniff!) I’m sorry.” I’ve yet to begin cataloguing all the faces I make, but if I ever get around to it, I shall name that one my I-make-very-bad-choices-sometimes-but-please-scold-me-later-cuz-I’ll-start-crying-so-hard-all-over-again face. Mary stood up, put her hand on my chin, made me look her in the eye (so mean!), and said to me, “You are such a handful.” And she kissed me! “You make the days fun.” And she did it again! “I didn’t mean to.” “Didn’t mean to make it fun?” “Didn’t mean to have a meltdown. I just …” And she did it again! She’s very forward. “It’s okay, Daffodil. Little girls get upset sometimes when they don’t mean to. Step out.” I did, and my wet yoga pants and her wet panties joined my shirt in the corner. I stood there naked, got a good look at wet spot I’d made on Mary’s jeans (who even wears jeans anymore? I worry about her sometimes), and she ran a tub. I sat down in it, and Mary wasted no time in getting the sponge soapy and rubbing it up and down my back. That … always relaxes me. “I was trying to surprise you.” “It was quite a surprise,” she chuckled. “And what a nice surprise it would’ve been if you hadn’t had a potty accident, my little girl showing me she could wear big girl undies and keep them dry.” “Mary,” I chuckled back. “Was wearing my underwear your way of saying you wanna be just like me when you grow up?” “That part was just for comedic effect … and yes to what you said too.” But really just comedic effect and to make it even more surprising. Pretty sure I succeeded on both counts. “But clearly,” Mary said as her sponge hand parted my thighs, “you’re not ready for big girl undies yet.” “Marrrry.” “Whose puddle did I just clean up? Right in front of the potty. You got so close and just couldn’t hold it anymore. After a week in diapers, I think you just weren’t ready to switch right back to underoos. Is that what happened?” “I just wanted to surprise you for Valentine’s Day.” “… By peeing our pants?” “By letting you take care of me. I know how much you like it when … you know. … If you make me say it, I’ll heccin … splash or something.” Let the world observe that there is a difference between being little and acting little. I acted for Mary’s benefit. I am not a little girl. I acted, I was clearly miscast for the role, tears ensued, and if the casting director (and screenwriter/director/producer) weren’t also me, I’d blame her. Debacle! Ignominy! Her fault! My fault! Clearly my range as an actress has limitations. “So your plan was to …” “Pretend to have an accident, pretend to get upset, and let you make it all better. I’m sorry I messed it up. It’s just … you said you wanted an experience instead of a present and …” “Hey, look at me. I see my little girl who had herself an accident; got very, very upset; and now she’s sitting in the bathtub, and I’ll make it all better if she’ll let me. Will you let me?” O gawd! Mary’s I-love-you-let-me-help face! Her eyes are so big and earnest and her smile is to soft and genuine … “Mhmm.” “Then you stop being sorry for upsetting yourself. Those kinds of accidents happen too.” Yeah, about that – I am kinda an expert at those kinds of accidents. Who needs to go to a haunted house on Halloween when they can just be left to their own thoughts and devices? I can freak myself out so good it’s bad (very, very bad; really). “And,” my Mary said to me, “I’m going to take such good care of you tonight.” “What’re we gonna do?” “I’m gonna get you all clean, and then we’ll go upstairs and get you into a fresh pampers.” For the records, I embarked upon my bad idea knowing that would happen and was willing to make the sacrifice. It’s Valentine’s Day. I suffer for my love. “And,” she continued, “we’ll get you in your footie pajamas. And after I change into some clothes you didn’t get piddle on, we’ll order dinner and dessert.” Ooo, restaurant cake. I feel better already. “Your ears just moved.” “What?” “I said dessert, and I swear your ears moved.” “Heehee! Did not.” “Did so. Pie – they did it again!” “Heehee hmmmm. Thanks for making me laugh.” “I love making you laugh.” “Thanks for not getting mad about me wetting your underwear … and getting your jeans wet.” “Just part of having a little girl who’s in and out of diapers as much as you.” “Marrryyy!” “Look up for me. There’s my pretty girl. So much prettier without those tear streaks though. Close your eyes and lemme wash those away.”

Really? I kinda think so too, but mostly because she isn’t working. She needs more responsibilities.

PS, inspired by a true fortune cookie. It says I can do and have anything I want, right?

Scene #156 When you’re single, Valentine’s Day sucks. No two ways about it: it sucks. When you have a partner, you get to choose whether it sucks. Some people think it’s just a greeting card holiday, and some people see it as an opportunity to be all lovey dovey and stuff. I take the latter approach, as is my wont cuz I’m as sunny as sunshine. I am goddam friggin delightful. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “She is such a delight.” Mhmm, that’s a thing people say about me. But delightfulness and a heck yeah attitude toward the holiday isn’t always enough to figure out what to get your Mary for Valentine’s. “Daphne,” Mary said. It’s not how she said it that made me jump. It was when she said it, specifically when I was rifling through her drawers. “O. Hi.” “What are you up to?” “Rifling through your drawers trying to think of something to get you for Valentine’s Day.” “We’ve talked about you going in my drawers,” she said with the same smile she-wolves make when they approach bunny. “Yeah, about that: I couldn’t help but notice you don’t mind it when I’m putting your laundry away.” “Tsk tsk tsk. Such a sass muffin.” “Well, you won’t find those in a bakery … Wanna go to a bakery later?” That’s where they keep delights to delight delightful me. The person who thought to put chocolate in the croissant is my hero. Blessings and sunlight be upon them all their days. Mary did a reach-around and closed her drawer (that’s what a reach around is, right? I don’t know these things; I’m very innocent and sexually inexperienced – really). And then she put her hands on my hips and pivoted me around before leaning forward and giving me a kiss that almost knocked me off my feet. I think she’s hopelessly in love with me or something. As for myself, I like to think of it as hopefully in love with her, glass half full and what not. “Ya know, Mary,” I said and maybe sorta kind definitely put my hand on her chest, “it’s almost as if you’re hiding my Valentine’s Day present in your drawers what with the drawer shutting and maybe-this’ll-distract-her kiss. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” “Yes. Yes, I would.” That’s why I said it. “Tough. You have to wait.” “Fine,” I said and tried to do the thing she just did with the grabbing the hips and pivoting her around but, um, I’m not as strong as she is, plus she has six inches on me so she has leverage … and stuff. But I did make her lose her balance and almost trip over me. She didn’t, but only because she planted her hand on my shoulder and almost knocked me flat on my ass, then grabbed me by the arm to save me from a broken butt. It’s sort of amazing anyone has ever dated me. Rewinding a bit, Mary was taking a huge risk trying to teach me to ice skate. I could’ve maimed both of us plus everyone within an ice rink radius. But in the then-present, I apologized for my faux pas. “Um, oops? You okay?” See how polite I can be after almost knocking my wife down? Very polite. Apologetic and polite and with, I’m told, a very cute oops-how-embarrassing grimace. And Mary makes this kinda sweet I-don’t-know-what’s-passing-through-your-head-sometimes face. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “the source of much consternation.” Yep, that’s also a thing that people say about me. “What exactly were you trying to do there, little girl?” “Spin you toward the bed so we could fall back on it and look at each other with big gay eyes.” What I lack in physical prowess and coordination I make up for in word choice and timing. True story. Also, I actually have all the physical prowess … so I got that going for me. Mary grinned at me, and no sooner did I suspect her intentions when she grasped me by the hips again with a “You mean like this?” “Woah! Ha! Yeah, like that. Heehee.” Wow; so this is what it’s like to be laying on a bed with a beautiful woman. Pretty awesome. But seriously, how does she do that? It’s not like she’s Superwoman (at least not since this one Halloween at band camp). “Your eyes are so gay,” she said to me. “No you.” That’s a trick I learned. Whenever you get a compliment, just say ‘no you’ and the other person will get squirmy and think you’re nice and also so cute. Not that I ever play tricks on my Mary, but … “You’re so cute.” “Ha! Hahuheeheehee!” “What are you giggling about?” “I’m happy.” And here’s a secret for you – right then, Mary kissed me. Girls kissing girls. Whoever heard of such a thing, and why aren’t there public service announcements letting the whole world know how awesome it is? And why doesn’t the news cover it with, like, a thirty-second video of at the top of each segment? But awesome or not, I still had to tell her, “But you still haven’t given me any ideas for Valentine’s. What do you want?” “I want … Hmmm. I don’t want anything. I already have a little girl.” “Can I meet her? I promise I’ll be nice and won’t bully her or anything.” “You think you’re so clever.” Ooo, she tapped my nose! O my heccin goodness she tapped my nose! I LIKE that. I like like it and everything. Sigh … nose taps. Also I’m not a little girl. Really. “Besides,” she said to me, “you couldn’t bully anyone if you tried. You’re too kindhearted. “I can too bully people. I can be mean. You’ve heard my rants. I say all kinds of mean things.” “Mhmm. Your temper tantrums can be quite the verbal fireworks show, plus it’s cute the way you turn all red and clench your fists and stomp your little feet. In fact, I’d say you have the most adorablly ineffectual temper tantrums I’ve ever seen in an adult.” Ugh! That is so mean! Can you believe she says these things about me? My Mary has no social graces a’tall. “You better say something nice about me next.” “The reason you can’t bully people is because you are too good a girl.” Heehee! “Um, would you even say that I’m a very good girl? Maybe even a very very good girl?” “That’s what I tell people.” “Aww, you go around bragging about me? You’re so sweet.” “Mhmm. I’m always telling people ‘sorry for her behavior; she really is a very very good girl.’” “If we’d done more stuff and gone more places in the last two years, I’d probably believe you actually said that to someone.” I may not be mean, but I can be mischievous, over excited, and every so often short tempered. Sometimes Mary makes me apologize; sometimes she even makes me mean it; and sometimes Mary takes me to the nearest private place for a … conversation about good choices. Yep, just a conversation. A regular Algonquin Roundtable … complete with paddling and stuff. “But we’re still talking about me,” I said. “What do you want for Valentine’s Day? Try harder.” If gotta boss her into giving me an idea of what to give her, I will. Not that I didn’t have ideas, but they were birthday, anniversary, and Christmas ideas. I needed a Valentine’s Day-sized idea. “Um … I want a … surprise.” “You’re about as helpful as burnt toast sometimes.” One time she burnt the toast so bad, the smell gave me a headache and she took me to breakfast. And one time the following weekend, I turned the toaster way up when I thought she wasn’t looking, and she took me to a chair and put me over her knee. Just shows that even brilliant economists such as myself can get our reward-to-risk calculations wrong, but in my defense, it’s notoriously hard to contextualize the true value of restaurant waffles. Just look at what they cost – that much happiness for just three dollars? Ridiculously underpriced. True story. “I want an experience,” Mary said. “Do you want a surprising experience or an experiential surprise?” I’ll get her either one; I just wanna be sure cuz I don’t wanna get her something she won’t like. “Incapable of being mean, but fully capable of being a sassy molassey.” “By the way, I looked that up, and it’s not a word.” Mary’s you-really-wanna-go-down-that-road face. Huh. Wonder what she meant by that, and lucky for me, she told me. “You, telling me, that something’s not a word. That’s … okay.” Mary’s I’m-gonna-let-that-go face. What could she mean by that? “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Really.” “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” “Of course it does. So you know what I want for Valentine’s Day?” Changing the subject? Me? Never. I don’t avoid the tough conversations. I go straight at them. That’s me – damn the torpedoes and all that jazz. “But I already got you your Valentine’s Day present.” “I know. I was talking about something else. Something I think I’m gonna get myself.” “Is it under the hundred-dollar limit?” “Yes, and we need to talk about that number not having changed in almost seven years, but just to clear, I wasn’t asking permission.” You’d think from the face Mary made that I’d sent a red flag up the mizzen. But I didn’t. Really. “So what is this thing you want to buy yourself?” “You know how the stores have peanut butter hearts back in stock?” “You can have one.” She even put up one finger to illustrate her point. I like that finger. It does some pretty cool stuff. But I don’t especially care for it when she uses it for illustrative purposes cuz I almost never like the point she’s trying to illustrate. “I don’t understand your puritanical attitude about chocolate and peanut butter confections.” I mean, why would my Mary align herself with the Puritans? They very much would not align themselves with us. “They turn you into a crazy person.” “Leading experts say sugar highs are largely a myth.” “I know. That’s what makes it even weirder how you behave on them. It’s like you found a drug that only works on you. You can have two, and not on the same day. Or on back-to-back days. You on peanut butter cups runs me ragged.” Many is the time Mary has put me over her knee because she says I listen better in that position, but I think Mary is the one with the listening disorder. I already told her I wasn’t asking permission, and there she was trying to dictate terms. But we were having such pleasant quality time that I didn’t want to make things awkward or hostile. I decided to just nip this conversation right in the bud. “I have to show you something.” “It better not be a candy stash,” she warned me as I got off our marital bed. “Remember when we ordered Chinese last week,” I asked as I stepped over to my jewelry box and got out my precious. “Yeah.” “They sent three fortune cookies, and PS, I ate the extra one, and this was my fortune: ‘You should be able to undertake and complete anything you desire.’” My precious. And Mary, see, she’s very smart but has trouble keeping up with me sometimes, and I could tell it was one of those times cuz she was making her I-don’t-get-it face. “I don’t get it.” See how well I know her? “What’s that have to do with what we were just talking about.” “It says I can have and do whatever I want.” Mary’s deep skepticism face. “Um, no, it doesn’t.” “Sure it does. If I undertake the doing or having of things, I’ll be able to complete – a/k/a do and have – all the things I desire. It’s just a fancy way of saying I can do and have anything I want. That’s what it says, and I want peanut butter hearts, so I shall have them.” I’m both a sympathetic and empathetic person. I can understand how difficult it must have been for Mary to understand her authority had been usurped by a cookie. I can understand her discomfort with the entire notion. I mean, if I were a dominant, I’d probably think it was downright dangerous for them to even make such a cookie and leave them where submissives could get their hands on them. I’d think it was dangerous and immoral, especially since all everyone knows if there’s a cookie somewhere, submissives will find it. “That’s what you think it says, huh?” “Mhmm. It’s quite clear. I can do and have anything I want. It’s pretty awesome actually.” Bit of a head rush. “Let me see that,” Mary sat right up and said with her hand outstretched. I mean, geez, grabby hands much? She seemed awfully alert all of a sudden, one might even say ready to spring into action, perhaps even get online and organize a dominant boycott of the fortune cookie company. “Are your hands clean?” What? It’s a valid question. “Daphne Ann.” Whoa. Doubled naming me. It’s not unheard of for the very recently deposed to try to exert the power they had mere moments ago. She needed time to adjust. I understood. She was under a lot of stress just then; being dethroned, as far as I can tell cuz I’ve been on the throne all my life, seems very traumatic. But there is a certain protocol to these things, and she had a right to see it. “Be careful with it,” I instructed her, “It’s an official document.” I duly handed over my precious. Mary read it, looked up at me, read it again, and said, “Stop smiling.” “So I’m going to get all the peanut butter hearts they have at the store, and then I’m going to go to a few more stores, and then I’m going to go to Target and buy a mini fridge to keep them all in.” “This is exactly the weird behavior I’m talking about, and you haven’t even tasted one yet.” “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Hmm. Why are her eyes narrowing like that? “Hey,” I said as she put my fortune in her pocket. “I need that.” “Stay.” “I won’t stay, but I’ll wait patiently because I’m in charge of me but I’m still polite,” I said as she strode across the room like the sheriff in an old western. How sad that she hadn’t yet grasped that she was no longer the law around these parts. “It’s alright with me if you wanna hang on to that for a little while until you get used to the idea, by the way. Just give it back by bedtime.” See? See how considerate I am? “I’ll give it back to you in just a minute,” she said like the sheriff in an old western striding back across the room carrying a … naughty stick and giant pampers? I’d never seen either of them before. Really hope neither was my Valentine’s Day present; how disappointing would that be. But bigger picture, do you see? You see how she’s the aggressor? Like all tyrants, even the benevolent ones like my Mary, she’s always so ready so resort to coercion. I mean, who buys a stick just for chastising their wife (besides the very best kind of people)? “On your back,” she ordered like authority was still a thing she had. I was going to let her stay on in a ceremonial capacity, or sort like the founder of a company who retires but still comes to work every day like they’re still in charge only now they wear a sweater instead of a suit. If she’d picked any battle besides peanut butter and chocolate, I’d have let her do that. I’d have even gotten her some nice house slippers to wear in her forced retirneemnt. But she sealed her fate when she tried yet again to get between me and the peanut butter. “I don’t wear diapers anymore, and you can’t spank me.” Hmm. Mary’s hell-hath-no-fury face. What an … unsettling reaction. “Um …” “I’m going to count to three.” Almost like she didn’t accept the authority of the cookie to take away her authority over me and put that authority under my authority. And remember when Mary implied I don’t always make sense? What was up with that? “I’m not a toddler,” I reminded her. “I’m not impressed by counting.” “One.” “I didn’t have a choice. You have to obey fortune cookies. It’s the law.” “Two.” “I’m not even intimidated by the way you’re slapping that stick into your palm.” What happened next is one of those things historians will debate: did she say ‘three’ before my back hit the bed? I was there in the room, and I don’t even know. Not that I surrendered. I just … decided to let her have this one. Call it Stick-holder Management – sometimes you hafta let a stick-holder think they’ve won to pave the way for confrontations down the road. Mary let her guard down just enough to flash a situation-defused face. Or maybe it was more of a Daphne-should-learn-that-when-she-tries-these-things-she-just-makes-herself-vulnerable face. And if it was the latter, I have no idea what she was talking about. Really. “I think I understand what you’re trying to tell me – hands above your head,” Mary said as she untied the bow in the drawstring holding up my sweatpants. Maybe I should use some of my free time to learn more difficult knots she’ll have a harder time undoing. “You’ve been such a good girl lately …” O my gosh she really thinks so?!? “… that I haven’t been as strict as I should’ve been. I mean, if you felt the need to make up that scene with the cigarettes, that must’ve been your way of telling me I haven’t been spanking you often enough or hard enough or long enough. I apologize for missing your signal, but I promise I’ll correct that mistake.” Something about being naked below the waist while a tall, strong woman wielding a big stick stands over you just has a way of making you feel vulnerable. Maybe science will one day be able to tell us why that is. I found it especially disconcerting as I’ve never felt exposed or vulnerable in all my life. “It really is just about the peanut butter,” I said very calmly for someone feeling so disconcerted. In any case, I thought I’d been admirably clear about my stance. Isn’t it just like a stick-holder to read way more into what you’ve been saying than is really there? Silly stick-holders. “But then,” Mary Monologue soliliquyed as she unfolded that diaper, “we’ve gone through so many cycles of strict and very strict, and the effects never last for very long, so maybe such a little girl trying to take on so much responsibility for herself is really trying to say she needs even more doting and attentive care.” Hmmm. Mary’s I’ve-got-her-cornered face. “I, um, just want more peanut butter hearts than you let me have.” I’m very reasonable. I can scale back my demands. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “a pleasure to negotiate with. She knows when to scale back her demands.” Yep, that’s one more thing people say about me. I’m the friggin talk of the town. “It’s so cute that you think so, but little girls so often don’t know what they want or need or even mean.” So I was going to remind her I’m not a little girl, but something about the way she was smiling so adoringly and threateningly at the same time made me decide to remind her later. Good thing I (mostly but also all the times) like it when she adores and threatens me at the same time. True story. “But I’ll humor my little girl,” she said as she glanced from the stick on her right side to the diaper on her left. “What do you think you need: some extra strictness, or some extra care?” I think I’ve lost control of the narrative. Let’s just try this. “I don’t think you’re taking the fortune cookie seriously enough.” “Mhmm,” she patronized me. The faux interested in the way she wrinkled her brow practically shouted, tell me more about that. “Um, see, they may not be legally binding, but,uh … mystically speaking, they do tell the future. And that’s my destiny, apparently … getting to do whatever I want. You wouldn’t, um, wanna deprive a pretty girl of her destiny … would you?” “Daphne.” “So what if I only follow my destiny specifically for candy and only until after Easter?” That’s the start of the dry season when there are no more holiday-themed peanut butter treats until Halloween. We could even consider a trial period; we could go back to her way of peanut butter deprivation if it didn’t work. I mean, if peanut butter has such a strong effect on me, that’s plenty of time to remove any doubt as to whether my behavior on peanut butter is as self-destructive as she says. Heccin good logic, by the way. “I’m going to pick for you,” she responded. Quite the firm negotiator, my re-throned queen. “So we’re on the same page, doting means I’m wearing that diaper, and strict means you’re gonna spank me back to the stick age?” “Wearing diapers, with an ‘s,’ but other than that you seem to understand it perfectly.” “Any chance if I choose the stick I’m not going to end up in diapers?” “No; sorry.” I know my Mary, and she wasn’t sorry at all. Fibber. “And would I be correct to assume that choosing the diaper doesn’t mean the stick goes in the fire pit?” “Quite correct.” She winked at me! Who winks at a time like this? Like she was raised in a barn sometimes. “But if you choose diapers, the stick goes back in the closet until your choices tell me you need it applied to your bare bottom.” I took a deep breath and pushed it out as a big sigh through my nose. “Don’t you go getting huffy with me,” she gently warned me. “I wasn’t gonna … How many diapers?” “That depends on heavy a wetter you are.” “So, how many hours?” “168 hours. Probably easier for a little girl like you to of it as seven days. That way you only have one digit to wrap your little girl mind around.” Dammit! “Can I … hold the stick first?” It looked heavy. “I’m gonna choose for you.” Big sigh again. “The diapers.” I was gonna end up in them anyway, and I’ll tell you something else for free: we have so many spanking implements, Mary only buys a new one when she thinks it’ll hurt more than all the ones we already have. I’ve heard about naughty sticks. I did NOT want my first experience of one to be a (allegedly) bad girl spanking. “You’re the boss.” “That’s just mean,” I said as I crossed my arms. “Lift your butt.” She got the diaper situated under me. “And I haven’t forgotten about your fortune cookie. You can have it back.” I watched, horrified, as she withdrew my precious from her pocket and dropped it on the open diaper. Time slowed down, like watching a tragedy unfold and being unable to stop it. My Mary folded the diaper over me and taped it shut. The pats she gave the front of it echoed in my ears like the clang of some terrible bell tolling the death of a valiant band of freedom fighters for whom independence was too sweet dream to come true. Literally, because all they wanted was the freedom to eat as many chocolate peanut butter hearts they could stomach. “I can’t believe you did that,” and I said that having seen Mary get pretty creative with the mean things she does to me. She shrugged and made her I-know-I’m-pretty-impressed-with-myself-too smile. It’s a good thing I like seeing her smile, else I’d have gotten huffy with her after all. “And don’t even think of opening this diaper or reaching in there to get it.” “I was going to frame that.” I could spend the rest of my life eating nothing but Chinese takeout and never get that fortune again. “Tell ya what – if it comes out of there in one piece and you can salvage it, we’ll frame it. Custom, in a giant overpriced frames. How’s that?” “I just wanted more peanut butter hearts,” I pouted. “You can have three.” “Five.” “Four.” “That’s not even enough to get the dosage right. I’ve built up a lot of tolerance.” “Three.” “Four’s good.” “I’m so glad you feel that way,” she chuckled and laid herself back down next to me like there never was an interlude in our staring into each other’s big gay eyes. “Would you really have spanked me hard with that stick?” “You didn’t leave me much choice.” “Taking a cookie awfully serious.” But not in the way I wanted her to, so actually she was quite flippant in a this-is-very-serious kinda way. “I had a mutiny on my hands. I won’t have my submissive little girl trying to rebel, even in a cute way.” “It was just supposed to be funny.” But if it had worked, and I’m not saying I believed it would, then it would have been way too important to be funny. A watershed moment in the history of the tripartite relationship between Daphne, Mary, and peanut butter. Really. “You know how sometimes a kid does something very naughty, but it’s also hilarious, but the parents can’t laugh?” Hey! “I don’t think I care for that analogy … So you really think I’m hilarious?” “Very.” “Is my comedic timing good?” “Very good.” “Good.” “Can I feel,” she asked. Like, seriously, now she’s asking? She reached over and felt the diaper she put me in. “What,” I asked cuz I wasn’t sure what she was doing. “Is it soft?” “Lots of things are soft. That doesn’t mean I wanna wrap them around my loins and urinate in them.” True story. Very. True. Story. “So much sass,” she chuckled, “but is it? It’s supposed be.” “Yeah … Where did you even find this? It looks like a giant pampers.” “It’s new.” “From … Pampers? Really?” “No, silly goose, from a company that makes diapers for girls like you.” Does she really think those comments just slide under my radar? “I’m not going to take that bait because I like you and stuff.” “They’re hard to get now, but once there’s enough, you might never wear another kind of diaper again, unless you want to. I know how attached you are to the one with the little blue dog and the pink princess one.” “Psychologists call what you just did projecting.” “They even have some on Etsy made out of real baby diapers. Do you wanna try those?” “Um, how about no?” Hey, wait a second! “But I will if you want me to … if I can have six peanut butter hearts.” “And you really don’t think you do things you wouldn’t otherwise do without the peanut butter?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about it.” Seriously, what is she even talking about? I’m a certified instructor in Nonsense as a Second Language, and even I have no idea what point she’s trying to make half the time. “If you say so.” I casually reached over and picked up the naughty stick. “Really, Mary? Just unilaterally escalating?” “Like you said, your tolerance has gone up.” “An extended spank-free period would fix that.” “And have you sad, mopey, and unspanked? I couldn’t do that to you.” I’ll admit that on that subject, she actually had a point. “Do you think maybe if I behave all day, we can give it a trial run before bed?” “Why wait for bedtime? We can test it it when I change your diaper.” I wanted so badly to avoid that thing a few minutes before, and now I was curious and wanted to feel it. “Goes straight to heart of being me. I don’t want it when I’m in trouble, but when I’m not, I want it so bad that I need it.” Mary kissed me on my forehead. “Goes to the heart of being us. I hate having to spank your bottom, but love doing it.” And she tapped my nose again! Heck yeah nose taps! “Our Sundays are heccin fun.” “So much fun. How about some lunch? You can color a picture while I dote on you just like I threatened.” “Can it be a picture of me and you doing stuff to each other?” “Knock yourself out. Giving a pencil to such a little girl, I’ll be happy if I can tell the difference between that and your drawings of a house.” “Mean! I’m good at drawing.” “Very good at drawing.” O heck heccin goodness she tapped my nose again! Squeeeee!

I was going to add in a joke about getting a custom Real Doll in case Mary ever travels for work again, but I left it out ?

Scene #155 Does anyone besides me ever notice how often I’m just minding my own business? “Where’s Daphne,” people say. “I don’t know,” their conversation partner answers. “That’s probably cuz she’s off somewhere minding her own business,” they reply, “She usually is.” Yep, that’s a thing people say about me. I mind my own business, and things just happen to me. Don’t get me wrong though; I control my own fate. I am the agent of my own destiny. I’m in charge … and stuff. Really. “Daffy,” this person I live with named Mary called out all dulcet and stuff. Tell you two secrets: I like her and she’s pretty. “I’m in here,” I answered cuz why would I ever want her to not be able to find me considering how pretty she is and how much I like her? Well, I’ll tell you (dammit). “There you are. I looked everywhere for you,” the Mary I married said to me. “That’s just not true,” I said with one eye on the TV, “cuz I’ve been on this couch for two hours and our house isn’t that big.” “You’re very verbal for such a little girl. People compliment me on how verbal you are all the time.” “Pretty sure you just called me a smartass,” I mumbled. “We need to have a little chat,” she told me. That got my attention. I know what that means, and just then I noticed she had one hand hidden behind her back. Ruh roh, Shaggy. Wurr win rubble! And like, we even didn’t do anything, man! (PS, my business that I was minding was watching Scooby and the gang solve a mystery. I’m pretty sure there’s something delightfully gay going on between Velma and Daphne). I sat up as she sat down. “Before we do that, I just wanna say I’m almost positive I didn’t do anything.” She chuckled at me. Imagine chuckling at someone in distress, especially someone who is legit one thousand percent of the time cool and collected like me and has never been in distress before. Rood. She has no manners, my Mary doesn’t. “It’s what you haven’t been doing that I want to talk about.” “But I already did … everything … ever … really.” Did I mention my butt was still four shades of bruised from my brilliant but ill-advised nicotine scene brilliance (borderline fiasco). And I’ll tell you something else: I did NOT flinch when she took her hand out from behind her back. I mean, why would I flinch at, “A teddy bear?” “Not just A teddy bear, Daffy. Your teddy bear. I found her in the closet. I’ve been wondering where she went.” She set the thing down in her lap like it was an infant who hadn’t mastered sitting up on their own (and I didn’t roll my eyes at all cuz I have the best poker face ever). “She must’ve been in there for months. All alone and in the dark.” “That’s just …” Grrr. Tactic change. I’ll just play the game better than her. “You don’t even know that! She went on vacation, actually. She had so much fun she wanted some time alone after all that stimulation … and stuff.” “Such an active imagination. People compliment me on what a good imaginer you are.” “Bullcrap,” I mumbled. “If you can imagine her – it – alone in the closet, then I can imagine she went on vacation. She’s my bear.” A teddy bear that Mary got me. I’m not really a stuffed animal person, but the thought was sweet (even if I knew it was one of her not-so-subtle ways of implying I’m little, but I saw through it and decided to think it was just sweet of her because I’m smarter and more forgiving than the average bear). At first I humored Mary and would put it on the bed when I made it but move it to the dresser at night. Then I just left it on the dresser, and Mary moved it back to my pillow every (single damn) day. “Honey, bears can handle lots of stimulation, and you know that.” Excuse me? Telling me what the heck I know … “And as much as I love your imagination, we both know bears can’t take vacations alone. It would be very neglectful and unsafe for them to travel on their own. They’re not even allowed on airplanes by themselves.” “It rented a car,” I hmmphed. “That’s just silly. She’s even littler than you.” “It. Was. A. Little. Car.” “Daphne Ann, you left her in the closet all alone for months, didn’t you?” “Mary …” “Didn’t you?” “She was hanging out with my summer wardrobe! And our closet is the funnest room in the house! Our best sex toys are in there!” True heccin story. “Language.” “Rrrr, Marrrry! Can I please go back to my show? I don’t like this game, and I think this time the ghost is finally real.” I’m not naïve; I’m just hopeful. “It’s ‘may I please go back to my show,’ and no, you may not.” O no she did not just ‘may I’ me! Well fine! I can … ignore her! I’m powerful enough to do that, ya know. And not scared of her. So not scared I even gave her my unimpressed face right before I picked up the remote and turned the volume up on Scooby and friends. Something about that Velma – red hair, smart, short – reminds me of someone I can’t put my finger on and she is just so hot to me. Really. And Mary, being the bully that she is, reached over, grabbed my wrist in one hand, took the remote away with the other, set it on the tables, and then – what the heck! – smacked my hand! I mean, really? Really? I didn’t say so to Mary cuz I didn’t wanna hurt her feelings or sink to her level, but hitting is what we do we’re not smart enough to use our words. Definitely didn’t hold my tongue cuz I wasn’t clever enough in the moment to come up with that or cuz I’m scared of her or anything or … stuff. Really. And then the big B turned my show off. Hmmph! “You’re already getting a spanking, Daphne. Don’t make it worse.” “What!?! What the fu …” Ooo. Mary’s finish-that-word-and-I’ll-finish-you face. She doesn’t mind me swearing, but when I’m already in trouble, even just “trouble,” or when she wants to play one of her (exclusively hers) ageplay games, she actually takes it super fu… super heccin seriously. I took a breath and continued, “What I meant to say was that I didn’t do anything wrong, and I don’t want a spanking.” “I know you don’t want a spanking, Daffodil. That’s why it’s a consequence, and whether you want one or not doesn’t matter. I’m in charge, and I know when little girls need a spanking. And I know that you, little girl, need a spanking.” It would be so much easier if she said stuff like that in an I’m-out-of-patience-you’re-really-gonna-get-it-now voice instead of her I’m-explaining-this-to-you-gently-and-piece-by-piece-cuz-you’re-smol-and-need-it-explained-and-I-don’t-want-you-to-be-scared voice. Not that the latter pushes any buttons of mine or anything. It doesn’t … Really. “But I didn’t do anything!” “That’s the problem. You’ve been neglecting your bear.” “But …” I wasn’t getting all huffy and twitterpated. You were! “I didn’t do anything.” I didn’t lower my voice to a resigned sigh. Um … you did! Ya big resignated … sigher person. “I think we need to finish this conversation with you across my lap. Stand up.” “But I don’t wanna. My butt still hurts from last time.” And I didn’t get up because she told me to. Scurrilous lies! I got up because … reasons … and stuff. “And that’s what happens when your behavior tells me you need two spankings so close to each other. Let’s get these down.” And I didn’t stand there ineffectually letting her take my pants down. It’s just that I didn’t even like those pants and wanted them off … and stuff. “Are you at least dry? You know one more accident and it’s back to diapers for the rest of the day.” Firstly, I don’t know that cuz she just makes stuff up as she goes. Second, nuh-uh one more! There wasn’t one to begin with! And third but not last, I didn’t just let her touch me through my underpants. Cuz one, I’m not that easy … and stuff. “Damp but I wouldn’t call this an accident,” she said like a verbal pat on the head. “At least not yet. Turn around.” And I wasn’t! I was … humid at most. And she made me that way with her ordering me around and talking down to me and pushing the buttons … and stuff. Really! Just like that, I was facing the other way. Which was fine by me. Really. I wasn’t even thrown off at all when I heard a cautious sniff (ugh!) and felt her pull on the waistband of my panties. “Hey!” is a thing I said cuz I wanted to and not because I was responding to anything anyone else did … and stuff. Really. I don’t react to events. I drive events. I am events! … And stuff. “I’ll keep checking your bottom until I’m sure you’re past that stage of growing up.” I didn’t and I never and I wasn’t and mean! Just mean! “Turn back around for me.” I started getting over her lap without being told, proof if any was ever needed (and it wasn’t) that I make my own decisions. Um, really. Please? “Ah-ah,” she said to me before I could. “Daphne Ann, I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.” If only that were true. Sigh … “You almost laid down on your bear. You’re much too big to lay down on her. She’d have been seriously hurt. Don’t you roll your eyes at me.” Who, me? “You watch very closely. Bears are very delicate. We pick them up like this, and we set them down very gently where they won’t get hurt. Now, over my knee.” At least I’ll get a spanking out of this stupid game of hers. It’ll hurt, but that’s at least fun after, is what I told myself as I got across her lap. Good thing I like it there given how much time I spend there. But don’t tell her cuz she’ll take that as an invitation to do it all the time and I already gave her than invitation and look where it got me. In wonderfully happy marriage and just as in love with my wife as when we first met. It’s awful. Really. “Could we please just get this over with already?” What brat? Who? Where? Not me! Really! Hmmph! “No, we cannot just get it over with. You’re going to lay there and hold still like the good little girl I know you really despite your extra fussy attitude, missy. For a little girl who’s been watching cartoons all day, you really don’t have a reason to be grumpy with me.” O my god let me count the reasons! Firstly, interrupted my cartoon. Answer B: I was watching live-action shows earlier, so don’t you be telling me I’ve been watching cartoons all day. The truth matters. Thusly, I didn’t like Mary’s game. Thenly, I don’t even like teddy bears! But try telling that to Mean Mary, which is what everyone who’s me calls her behind her back (but only when she’s being mean and even then almost always in jest cuz she’s actually super nice). But I wasn’t grumpy. I was indignant, which despite how it sounds is a more dignified thing to be … and stuff. “It is not acceptable for you to neglect your bear. She is your responsibility, and don’t think I can’t see you rolling your eyes through the back of your head.” Wow, she’s good. It’s like she knows me super well and stuff. “I take of you, Daffy. Imagine if I put you in the closet for months at a time. They’d take you away from me.” Well, that’s actually true. “But more importantly, neglecting bears is not a thing good girls do. Good girls take extra special good care of their bears. They show they love them every day. They take their bears places. Bears, Daphne, love Scooby Doo. Everybody knows that. Would it have been so hard for you to bring your bear downstairs to watch cartoons with you?” Did … did she just imply I’m not a good girl? Cuz if she did, so help me I’ll know she’s just teasing but it’ll still push my shame button. “Putting you bear in the closet is not nice, and good girls are nice to their bears. Good girls take care of their bears. Your bear,” Mary said before choking up. She’s such a great actress she even got herself going with the sob story she was telling. “Your bear,” she said after swallowing the lump in her throat, “you bear, Daphne Ann, has never … even been to a tea party. She’s never had her fur combed. She doesn’t … (sniffle) even have any pretty dresses to wear.” O god stop that! Stop! No sniffling! I can’t deal with Mary’s cry voice! She knows that! No, brain, my brain shouted at itself! “Your bear has been sleeping all alone … literally in a cardboard box without even a blanket. Good girls don’t do that their bears,” Mary said and barely managed to squeak out the last words. This is ridiculous! You do not feel guilty! Not today! You didn’t do anything and Mary is just pressing buttons! She ins’t even really sad. But she might be. uwu. But she isn’t! And don’t you uwu me. Don’t you dare uwu me! She is not sad! We did NOT make her sad. But can we risk it? What if she really is disappointed in us? She isn’t! You fall for this crap every time! Resist! Don’t let her win! “I know you’re just a very little little girl, but this is very very serious. You will be a good girl, and you will treat your bear the way all bears deserves to be treated, because that’s the only way my little girl is going to behave.” She sounds serious. She isn’t, brain! You know that! You’re the knowing side of the brain. I’m in charge of feels. So listen to the one who knows! No. Can’t risk it. Gotta be regretful and sad. Uwu. No uwu! No regretful and sad! Uwu. Dammit, brain, you f#$#@%* surrender monkey! Uwuuuuuuu! “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry!” God, I’m so pathetic for someone who isn’t pathetic at all. It’s hard being me. “I know you are, sweetie, cuz you’re just like me. You’d never do anything wrong or hurtful or mean on purpose. You are my sunshine. You and I share the same heart …” That kind of stuff might wow them at Hallmark but it doesn’t cut any … huh? what is this wetness on my face!?! No, dammit! Just spank me already and we’ll both feel better. Pleeeeaaasssse! “And it’s because I love you so much and want so much for you that I have to teach you right from wrong, even if it means giving you very hard and long spankings like the one you’re about to get. And when it’s all over, we’ll cry out all the bad feelings together, and you’ll be my bestest girl like I know you are. Are you ready for your spanking?” “(Sniffle) Yes please,” I meeped. Get it over with. Lemme have it good! Make the stupid not even deserved feels go away. She peeled my panties down to just below my butt, took a firm hold on my hip, and spank. I only let out a sob at the very first tap cuz my butt was so sore still. Really … and stuff. spank O geez. She’s gonna make you suffer through the longest warmup ever. She’s gonna torture me by dragging it out and making me wait for the catharsis part. “I’m very sorry you needed such a harsh spanking.” What the fudge muffin?!? Nooooooooo! “But (sad water buffalo) and I didn’t (sad wookiee) and I still (basically all the sad animal noises). Please give me a real spanking! I need it! I deserve it! And I need it pleeeaaasssse!” “That was a very big spanking for such a little girl.” “I’m not a little girl!” She just hauled off and … pulled me into her lap and wrapped her arms around me in as big a hug as she’s ever given me. “Shhh. You just let all those tears out. That’s the bad choices leaving your body.” “Marrrrryyy!” “I’m right here, baby. Your Mary’s right here. Your Mary’s is always here and always will be.” I choked on my sob just long enough for a moment of silence as my subby brain processed what she said, and I responded with a very dignified, “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” Also, guilt trip much? I mean geez! “Awww, listen to those big little lungs of yours. You just scream and cry all you need cuz your Mary isn’t going anywhere until you’re all done.” “(Sputtering.) (Choking sobs.)” Oof. “That’s okay. You can wipe your nose on my shirt.” Wait, was I doing that? Didn’t mean to. Um … really. It’s not fair. She makes me cry all the time, and unless it’s the I’m-actually-sad or you-hurt-my-feelings kind of crying, it doesn’t even make her eye twitch. She sniffles cuz she’s telling a sob story that might as well have been Fido has never eaten food. Won’t you send five dollars to help us find him a forever home and my stupid, eager-to-please, I’ll-shut-down-before-I-disappoint-Mary, subby brain loses the ability to distinguish between actually disappointing Mary to the point of making her cry and Mary just pushing buttons like an unsupervised brat in an high-rise elevator. Once I’d finished fugly crying over my very real feelings of shame for how’d I’d treated an inanimate object and was merely down to sniffles and trying to make my diaphragm stop cramping, Mary, cooing and patting my back and, dare I admit it, rocking me told me how things would be different with my bear from now on. “This is partly my fault cuz I didn’t teach you how to take care of a bear. I just assumed you learned from your mom.” O my god leave her out of this or I swear I’ll make my first round of sobbing look like happy hour at the chuckle emporium! “I got you some of the things you need to get started.” “Like (snurfle) what?” O, shut up and stop playing along. I’m the rational side of the brain; you’re just around for feelings. Who needs stupid feelings! I think my brain was pouting. Can they do that? “Your bear is very smol like you, so I got her some very small diapers to wear. You’ll need to change her at least four times a day.” What is it with her and diapers? And is she heccin serious? Talk about wasting money. “And every bear should go to tea parties, so I got you a tea set. You and her have a standing lunch date once a week.” Okay, she definitely can’t be serious. “And I got her one outfit, but you need to get online and pick out seven more for her.” “Why seven?” “One for each day of the week plus one in case her diapers leak. And I expect to see you taking her places. At least one trip outside the house a week. Most stores don’t let bears inside, but she’ll be happy just to take a car ride, and you’d better buckle her in.” I’m just not doing that. “And she needs fresh air. Come springtime, you’ll take her outside when you’re playing in the garden.” It’s not playing! But … whatever, I guess. “And when we have movie night, she gets to come when the movie is appropriate for a bear so small. She even gets to pick sometimes.” In that case, she likes Deadpool and David Attenborough documentaries. “And she’s going to sleep in your arms every night. I even got the two of you matching jammies.” I will wait to see the jammies before deciding whether to refuse. “But I don’t wanna sleep with a bear.” “But that’s what bears need. She’s your responsibility. I don’t like spanking your bottom like I just did, but I do it because you’re my responsibility and you need it.” “But … fine.” “What?” “Nothing.” “Tell me.” “I can’t.” “Of course you can tell me.” “I mean I can’t sleep with her.” “Cuz you’re afraid your diaper will leak on her when you sleep wet? Cuz we can double diaper you at night. Problem solved.” I’m gonna leak on purpose one of these nights just to make Mary sleep in it for once. Hmmph! “She’s too small. There’s nothing to hug.” It came from the florist with some flowers! Last time Mary made me hug it, I might as we have been hugging myself. “O … I see. How would you feel if we found a new home for your bear with a little girl the right size, and we could get you a bigger bear?” “Okay on the first part.” “Daphne, do you even want a bear? Wuh? Excuse me!?! After all that she gives in? After all that? Fuhnominutter! Mother kernoshinator stumbleflunker ganawshifrumhauerhoffer and crap! Double crap!!! And stupid assing dammit all to kerninsplatter!!! All that for her to just give in? After all that!?! All!!! That!!! Mean! She’s mean? She’s mean, dammit, she’s mean! “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I didn’t whine-shout. “I’m sorry. You need to speak up when you have something important to say.” O my god! Kiss my kernuhmoffer, Mary! “I know you don’t want your bear, but until we find her a new home, you still need to take care of her like you should’ve been doing all along.” Whatever. Whatever whatever what the crud ever. “So what would you like instead? A dolly? A bunny? A kitty?” No. O god no. Please no. Please don’t tell me she’s really not going to drop this. “I don’t want anything,” I whined and who can blame me. I went from the high of Scooby Doo to the low of whatever the hell was happening by way of friggin fugly crying. “But you’re a little girl. All little girls need a stuffy, and stuffies need little girls to protect. How about a nice puppy?” Watch this ladies and gentlemen. This’ll make her go awww and let this go. “I don’t need a stuffy. I have my hands full just taking care of my Mary.” “ … How about a monkey?” “Marrryyyyy!” “Aww, I’m just teasing my own little monkey. If you really don’t want a stuffy, you don’t have to have one.” Ha! I won … I think? Or … were we competing over something? Did she actually care if I had a stuffy? Did she buy any of that stuff she said? Of course not. She just saw a button to push and slammed her palm on it. Good thing it only cost me some hysterical fugly crying … I guess. Dignity intact … and stuff. Really. “And I’ll take care of you and chase away all the nightmares,” she promised. “I know.” “You cried so hard.” “Cuz you cried just a little. ‘Emotional Blackmail Mary’ is what they should call you.” “Who’s they?” “Them. Whoever. Big meanie.” “I can’t be that mean.” “You are.” “Then how come you’re snuggling into my shirt even more?” “Cuz I like it when you’re mean sometimes, and I like you all the time … and stuff. Even when you’re mean.” I swear I’m not a golden retriever; I just have the same needs for love, attention, and affection as one. “I like you all the time too and stuff, even when you slime my shirts.” “That’s what you get.” “What I get (kiss) is a little girl (kiss) who needs me to kiss (kiss) the tears away (kiss) and wash her pretty face (kiss) and tell her she’s pretty (kiss) and a good girl (kiss).” “Heehee!” She was just kissing all over me. The ones on my ear tickled. Also, I’m very grown up and stoic and independent and not easily swayed by words or kisses and don’t even need anyone’s approval of me but my own. Um, really. “Heehee. You always like it when I (kiss) kiss your ears (kiss). And you know what else I get?” “What?” “A little girl who wants to cling to me for the rest of the day. I like it so very much when you’re my little shadow koala-ing me all day.” “Me too.” “Wanna go wash your face?” “Yes please. And I have a headache.” “I bet you do. Your sinuses don’t even know what hit ‘em.” I leaned on my Mary all the way to the bathroom. “Mary,” I said, “if you really want me to have a stuffy, I’ll get one if it’ll make you happy.” What?!? Shut up!!! Dammit! I am not pathetically eager to please and easily guilt tripped. Really! … And stuff. “No, sweetie, that’s okay. I’d rather get you something you really like.” Thank goodness one of us is rational, sort of. Not really. But it works for us. We’re weird … and stuff.

And you’re exactly right! I cover that in a later chapter.

Hello everyone, This is the first chapter of my latest story. This is currently being published chapter by chapter on my Patreon and will be available in its entirety later this year. You can find the latest chapters at patreon.com/alex_bridges. All characters are 18+ Chapter 1 It’s not like I did it on purpose. I’m not sorry, but it’s not like I did it on purpose. I babysit three times a week on average, more like five times in the summer. I want to pay for as much of college as I can in cash, and childcare pays better than retail or waiting tables. Especially now that schools keep opening and closing, parents are desperate for a night away. For me, an opportunity to make more money, which I need. I’m not going to risk my reputation as the best sitter in town just because of a little mix up. “Hi, Mrs. Rooney,” I said when she opened the door. “Hi, Sally. Come on in. Thanks for coming over on short notice.” I followed her into her kitchen; the Rooneys always have good stuff in the fridge. I didn’t get where I am as a sitter by abusing fridge privileges, but I don’t pass up the benefit either. She was dressed to the nines. I never asked, but it always seemed like she and Mr. Rooney must be going someplace expensive. Just based on their house alone, they must be one of the richer families I sit for. They’re not wealthy, but they got the upper-middle-class thing down pat. Literally the only people I know whose entryway it an actual room. “Always happy to when I can,” I replied, “I like Jamie and Jackie.” Well behaved kids, easy to get along with. “O, they’re both at friends’ houses tonight. It’ll just be you and Gordy tonight. Is that okay?” Like I couldn’t tell this ‘misunderstanding’ was totally on purpose. She had this guilty, pleading look on her face, but that was so beside the point. “Gordon? Really?” I knew Gordon. More specifically, I’ve known him since kindergarten, which would make fourteen years we’ve known each other. We graduated a little over year ago in the same class; we were even in the same twelfth grade homeroom, and now we’re both sophomores townies at the same college. I’ve sat for the Rooneys more than a few times, and Gordon was, obviously, never one of my charges. I just figured that was because he was the same age as me. Come to think of it, he was never even home when I sat for the kids because if he was, why would they need me to watch the kids? “I wouldn’t ask. Normally he spends the night at my sister’s or a friend’s house when you’re over, but he can’t tonight.” Like, but he’s … “But why does he need a sitter? He’s twenty. He’s, like, a month older than me, right?” And I’m also twenty. “Yes, but I don’t like leaving him alone if it can be helped.” “O … kay. So we’ll just watch a movie, I guess.” Get paid a hundred bucks to watch a movie with one of my peers? Weird, but fine by me. We’re not friends exactly, but we’re friendly. We were sorta friends when we were younger, but less so once we got to middle school. Gordon’s not exactly Mister Popular. Everyone’s nice to him, though, and he seems nice enough too. Just … different crowds. “Not exactly. I can explain fast, but we’re running late.” “That’s fine. I’ll stay.” “O, thank you. We just really need a night out, and since he got in trouble on campus today, he’s not allowed to go to his friend’s house and my sister already had plans and …” Didn’t really need her life story. “Whatever. It’s fine. Just tell me what’s up,” I said with a dab of false cheer to cover my WTF. She’s running late; I’m getting paid whether she tells me all this other stuff or not, so hey, let’s skip to the part I need to know, right? “Gordy,” Mrs. Rooney said, “come sit at the table with us. I want you to hear all of this so you can’t say you didn’t know later.” I followed her eyes, and color me surprised to see Gordon – Gordy at home, apparently; he always hated being called that in school – standing in the corner in his pajamas at six o’clock. I know the difference between lazy around-the-house-clothes and jammies, and those were definitely jammies. He shuffled over blushing all the way to his ears as he kept his eyes pointed at the floor. We all took a seat at the table. I couldn’t tell if he as about to cry, tantrum, or both, and I wouldn’t blame him if he did. If I were him, I’d probably have broken something and peeled out of the driveway while flipping the bird. I mean, we’re not kids. We’re not even teenagers. We’re way too old for a babysitter by about eight years. “First off,” Mrs. Rooney said, “do you know about Gordy’s issue?” “His diapers? Yeah.” Like he could keep that a secret for since literally the entire time I’d known him. No one made fun of him for it, not in a long time. Kindergarten and maybe first grade a little, but even in kindergarten it quickly became normal: our class had a kid in diapers. An adult in diapers now. And he’s not on the spectrum or delayed or anything. I don’t know what the issue is cuz it’s none of my business, but he’s always been in diapers, at least so far as I know. You’d have to be dense to have not figured it out within the first week of kindergarten. And if even if you were dense, when we got to middle school and had to change for gym, I think they let him change in a private stall or something, but you could totally hear him crinkling through those shorts. And no one teased him. Gordon wears diapers, always has; he went to the nurse a couple times a day, and we all knew why. If anything, people in school were kind of protective of him even though he didn’t need it. I even heard a rumor that when a new kid asked about it in tenth grade, the biggest bully in our class hauled off and punched him just to make it perfectly clear no one bullies Gordon. “You’ll need to check and change him tonight.” Just when I thought Gordon – well, when in Rome – Gordy couldn’t bow his head any lower. “Uh, he doesn’t do that himself? Or can’t he?” You don’t get to be the most sought-after babysitter in town by being squeamish about changing diapers, but one fact I do know: toddlers make bigger messes than newborns, and twenty-year-old Gordy has about a hundred and five pounds on the average two-year-old. Though come to think of it, I didn’t know if Gordy needed diapers for that or just for wetting accidents. In the brief second I had to consider that, it occurred to me even a toddler who still has wetting accidents is usually in a pull-up, not a full blown diaper. Our school’s gym shorts covered everything, but there was no mistaking Gordy’s underpants for a pull-up. He wears diapers. “Gordy got a diaper rash last week. If he wants the privilege of changing his own diapers, he needs to be responsible about it, which means no rashes. I’m sorry to even ask you to change him, but I like to be very consistent with the rules, and the rule is if he gets a diaper rash, no changing his own diapers for a month.” Not surprised exactly. She’s one of the stricter parents I sat for. So yeah, she’s his stepmom, but she’s not really an evil stepmom. She’s just a stickler for rules. I was afraid to ask this and very sorry to have to ask it in front of Gordy, poor little guy, but I had to. “Um, does he … both ways?” I guess I could’ve asked him, but he seemed like he’d rather have a hole swallow him than answer any questions. “He doesn’t usually have a dirty diaper in the evening.” “Still …” “Two hundred for the night,” Mrs. Rooney said before I could finish the sentence we both knew I was in the middle of saying. “Two-fifty.” Hey, I’m not one to miss an opportunity. Do you know what books cost for just one semester? “Done.” “Sorry,” I said under my breath to Gordy. I felt bad enough for him that she was making him have a sitter, but how much worse for him to hear what it costs to get someone to look after him, which he doesn’t want anyway, and pretty obvious why anyone would want extra to sit for him. So yes, I felt bad for him, but it’s just … the ‘usually’ in ‘doesn’t usually have a dirty diaper in the evening’ sorta stands out like sore thumb in that sentence, right? It would if you were me, and I am me. “And another thing,” Mrs. Rooney said. “Mommmm,” he whined. A little spark of rebellion flashed in his eyes. I didn’t know about what, but that’s what you expect from someone his age. I guess I understand if life’s circumstances made him a little more likely to give in than lash out even when any of the boys we graduated with most of the girls would’ve told their stepmom where to go by now. “Gordon, last warning.” I looked from her to him, and that little spark turned into a little water, and he looked back down at the table. “As I was saying, Gordon got in trouble on campus today and is grounded, so he’s not spending the night at a friend’s like he normally does. Why don’t you tell the story, Gordy, since you think you’re old enough to say anything you want?” Did I say ‘stepmom’, cuz I meant ‘bitch.’ And Mrs. Rooney is not normally a bitch, so that got me more than a little curious what exactly he’d done to piss her off so mightily. On top of which, it’s not exactly easy to get in trouble on campus. I mean, we’re adults. You can do some seriously stupid stuff on campus without getting in trouble. He sighed and answered, “I called called someone … a name.” “The ‘C’ word,” his stepmom clarified. Or should I say his very reasonable, no more pissed off than she had a right to be (but could still be a whole lot more chill and even more thoughtful) stepmom clarified. “Gordy actually called a woman the ‘C’ word.” “But she …” Gordy tried to defend his actions. “I know what she said, and you had every right to be angry with her, but that is not how you talk to or about women. You know that, and losing your temper is not an excuse for using a slur.” She turned back to me. “I already washed his mouth out, but that language also earned him a bedtime spanking.” “A sp … O … kay.” Of all the ways my day could’ve gone, didn’t see this one coming. Like, at all. I personally never got why some parents get so bent out of shape about bad words (how bad can they be when you can turn on network TV and hear most of them?), and I didn’t really get why she cared given that – did I mention it six times already? – Gordy is twenty years old. On the other hand … now I understood why Mrs. Rooney was taking it so seriously. It’s not that big a deal if you think of the ‘C’ word as a swear, but if you think of it as a slur, yeah, much bigger deal. I guess it depends on how you use it, cuz I could see how it could be a slur, but I’ve always thought of it more as a swear. Not that my opinion meant anything in the circumstances. I’m the babysitter – I literally just work here. “I’m too old,” Gordy interjected probably (more like definitely) more loudly than someone in his position should’ve. I mean, I agree with him, but he still should’ve just kept quiet. There’s standing up for yourself, and then there’s digging the hole deeper. If she had already washed his mouth out (ick!), not let him go out with friends, and hired a sitter for him, I couldn’t imagine any argument, not matter how obviously valid, changing her mind. Mrs. Rooney is a fit woman; I’ve seen her play a heckuva game of tennis at the club, so not a surprise she could be on her feet and have her stepson by the ear so damn fast. Gordy’s not the first kid I’ve gone to babysit and found standing in a timeout; or the first kid I’ve gone to sit and seen spank-marched to the nearest corner for corner time; or even the first kid I’ve sat for who earned a spanking on my watch. But he was the first kid I’ve sat for who wasn’t, ya know, an actual kid. He may have crinkled all the way to the corner; he may have eeped a little when she tugged his ear; he may have tried to get out of the way of her hand as she delivered those underhand spanks; and he may even be kinda cute in a boyish kind of way, but definitely an adult. One whose birthday actually comes before mine. Diapered or not, adult. “Not another word,” Mrs. Rooney warned him, “or I’ll take your pants down right here. You just stand there and listen.” And damn did she mean it, even in evening wear. That tone? Enough to make me almost jump out of my chair to find my own corner and listen. “Are we ready, honey,” Mr. Rooney asked as he appeared from somewhere. Not that I wanna be that babysitter, but Mr. Rooney can take me anywhere so long as he’s wearing his tux. Shawl collar? Makes him seem even taller. No mistaking him for your waiter. And who even goes places that are black tie? “Just a minute,” Mrs. Rooney replied and picked up the pace; they probably had a reservation at one of those places you have to reserve six months ahead of time. Anyway, she continued quickly with, “He takes a bath on Fridays, not a shower. When he gets out of the bath, please give him his spanking. His diaper comes down, and he goes over your knee. He knows where to the hairbrush is. Then it’s straight to bed. Lights out at 9:30. That means no dawdling in the tub, Gordy. Out at 9:15. Understood?” He either understood or he didn’t want to risk saying anything he had every right to say but shouldn’t unless he wanted two spankings in one day. “Any questions,” she asked me. “So … on his … bare?” “Have you ever given a spanking before?” “Yeah … Well, a swat on their reset button,” I said, oddly embarrassed. I mean, most parents don’t even spank anymore, let alone allow – let alone ask! – a sitter to do it. I’ve tapped a tantruming toddler on the bottom before, but that’s not even a spanking. “Are you okay doing it? I wouldn’t ask, but the rule is a bedtime spanking. It’s best for them to get their consequence as soon as possible, and Gordy really needs the structure.” I guess that was all Gordy could take. “But she can’t! She’s the same age as me!” There was silence as Mrs. Rooney turned and looked at him like he was out of his mind. I thought he was in his exact right mind, but if I had to live with her, always strict like she is and and just then downright exuding this weird kind of determined, calm-but-pissed-off vibe she was giving off, I think I’d have kept my mouth shut. I think he realized that too cuz he didn’t say anything else or turn around. So that was two outbursts (justified if unwise) since I’d gotten there plus calling someone the ‘C’ word all in one day. Talk about your verbal incontinence. I don’t feel very strongly about spanking one way or the other. It didn’t do me any harm – though the last one I got was in third or fourth grade, and it was pretty rare before then too – but I’m not one of those crazy people who thinks you can’t possibly raise godly tomatoes (or whatever asinine phrase the bible bunch uses) without it. Still, I was the babysitter. It’s kind of my critical to my job to not let “you’re just the babysitter so you can’t XYZ” slide. On the one hand, pick your battles. On yet another hand, some battles you gotta fight. So I got up and connected that hand hard with Gordy’s butt. “I’m the babysitter. I’m in charge. And if your stepmom says you’re getting a spanking, you’re getting a spanking.” Two bonuses to stepping up like I did. First, and this wasn’t the main thing but was intentional, Mrs. Rooney smiled thinly and stood up, not to follow up on her threat to spank Gordy but to leave. Good riddance. Who needs those vibes around? Second, unintentional bonus: holy crap did I feel more powerful than I ever have in my life. And turned on. My promise ring didn’t make the journey from youth group to my mom’s car, but never I felt the way I did right then without a D or a D-cell battery before. Downside? Gordy finally lost it and started sniffling. I know the two spanks I landed didn’t actually hurt through his diaper, but I’m sure he was feeling about two inches tall having his college classmate spank him on his diaper while telling him she could and would give him a real spanking later that same night. I hated that I made him feel that way, even if I was just his stepmom’s instrument in this case. But also, and I feel guilty for saying this, it kinda added to the whole arousal hearing him sniffle. So … there’s a thing I learned about myself that night. Mrs. Rooney said to me, “I think you’ll do fine, but if you have any questions, Gordy will answer them. Not his first trip over a knee.” “Another fifty.” Did I say that? Good for me! “That’s fair. Edward,” she called out to wherever Mr. Rooney had gone, “ready when you are.” To me she said, “Thank you again and sorry for all the fuss. I didn’t want to call just anyone over. I trust you. He may not want you here, but I told him you’d keep everything between us, won’t you?” “Of course.” Also, ‘may not?’ Try resented the hell out of it, understandably so. And I resented the hell out of her asking me to sit and springing this on me. “We’ll be home very late.” “I know. I’ll probably be asleep on the couch when you get home.” I stood against the doorframe and watched Mr. Rooney count out three hundred dollars and put it next to the pizza money. I told them to have fun. She called me a godsend and barely avoided the door hitting her on the butt on the way out. To my right, Gordy in the corner, no longer sniffling but still staring at the wall on his naughty spot. To my left, three hundred dollars on the counter just for spanking and diapering a grown man. If I’d only known about this cottage industry sooner! Heck, I’d have paid off my car by now. Go to patreon.com/alex_bridges to continue reading

Scene #154 Me and Mary live a lifestyle relationship. If she says jump, I decide whether to jump or not, but if not, she decides whether and what consequence to give me for my disobedience (or half assed hop, cuz there’s degrees of obedience just like there are of consequences). But as you may have noticed, dear diary, that doesn’t mean every so often Mary doesn’t contrive a kinky little scene. She usually just springs it on me, and I hate it so much that I just go along with it and feel very happy during parts of it and even more after it’s over (cuz usually my butt hurts and my pride is in intensive care – so much fun except it’s not except for all the times it is which is always plus or minus yes and sorry for springing math on you there). But just like Mary is not quite as good with the wordplay as me, she’s also not as good with the subtlety. Perhaps it’s cuz as a smokin’ hottie (if your type is Mary, and my type is definitely positively so heccin Mary), you don’t have to be subtle. Or maybe it’s a dominant thing; you don’t need to be subtle when you’re as in charge as Mary is, and maybe even subtlety is counter to the whole domme thing. Not that she doesn’t have her ways of persuading me other than outright coercion. ‘Don’t you wanna be my good girl?’ I know exactly what she’s doing when she says that, and it still works anyway which is just so heccin unfair with how my mind-slash-hormones work. But my point is that when she decides to spring a scene on me, she’s about as subtle as a rodeo bull at the ballet. Just as an aside, I don’t know if I think the rodeo is cruel or not. Don’t like animal sports generally, but on the other hand, what a shot of self-esteem those bulls must feel when they throw one of those guys off and make all the clowns run away. This is how my mind works; it’s very tiring bouncing from thought to random thought. Anyhoo, my point, because I’m making one and getting to it and be patient, is that Mary isn’t subtle with the scenes she makes up. She usually just charges into a room and dives on in. But I can conjure up scenes too, and I can do it with subtlety. To whit … “Daphne Ann Taylor, where are you?” Of course, while I set the conditions for the scene (subtly), I can get in trouble for any reason or no reason at any time. Hearing all three of my names left me no doubt I was in a lot of trouble, but I didn’t know if I was in trouble in the happy confines of my scene or for something serious. The former would always make me nervous in an anticipaty you’ve-really-done-it-now-you-lucky-girl way, but not knowing if I was in real trouble made me nervous in the o-crap-what-did-I-do-way. A worthwhile sacrifice for the fun (I hoped) were about to have. Did I ever mention I’m one of the world’s great risk takers. Wannabes talk about risking their ass, but I live it, dammit! But first, just nervous. “Um,” I said at the volume one would use when speaking with someone sitting right next to them, “in here.” And given how PISSED off she sounded, I decided to, maybe, hide under the blanket I was already partly under. Not really, if anyone asks, cuz I don’t hide from trouble. I confront trouble. In fact, I am trouble. In fact, I’m all the trouble anyone is ever gonna get. But also yes, I got under the blanket. Not saying I hid well. Or at all. Really. “Daphne,” the big foot I married barked at me as she stormed across our living room. THWAWP! She can find my butt in a blizzard (true story), so managing to connect her hand with it under the blanket was easy peasy for her. “Out from the blanket.” “No!” “You … Gimme!” OMG, she’s actually trying to yank my blanket away. And damn she’s strong. Nice reminder this was gonna hurt before it got better. “No. Uf! Mine!” Yep, I wasn’t making it worse at all. “You get out here right this instant, young lady!” For a second there, I thought she was gonna yank me and the blanket clean off the couch, leaving the blanket dangling from her fist and me dangling from the blanket. Too bad it didn’t; it would really be nice to confirm that I truly do live in a cartoon. “Not til you tell me why I’m in trouble!” “Cuz of what I found in your purse. I’ma count to three and then …” Speaking of bulls at the ballet, I guess she lost her patience or something cuz she blew hot angry air out of what I imagine were some seriously flaring nostrils, and with one last yank, she proclaimed, “Three!” Damn; there went my hiding spot-slash-butt armor. Spanks don’t hurt nearly so bad through a blanket. “O, hi, Mary. When did you get home?” Of course, she hadn’t actually left home yet that day, but details. It was in that moment, and not a moment sooner, as I saw how red her face was (but that could’ve been the exertion of our epic blanket struggle) and her narrowed eyes glaring at me (but maybe the sun was in her eyes?) and the way she was white knuckling the hairbrush (perhaps she had something slippery on her hand?) that I realized that in my haste to be subtle in instigating this scene, she might not have known it was a scene. “You,” Mary said (Exclaimed? Accused?). She said a ton of other stuff, and I’d tell you what it was except I didn’t hear it so well through the sensory overload I was experiencing at the time. First there was the shock to my vestibular system as she yanked me right off the couch. Happened very fast; it was like, where even is my body in space? Up is down, down is up, and all at the same time. And talk about auditory overload. There was the sound of hairbrush-on-jeans, hand-on-jeans, hand-on-panties, hand-on-butt, hairbrush-on-butt, and lot of exclamatory ows and ouches and “hey!” and “no!” and “eeeeeee!” and “waaaah!” And that was just me. From Mary, what little I could make out through her vengeful sputtering came words like “Dare you!” and “Disgusting” and “No!” and “Hold! Still!” and “Bad girl!” And I gotta admit, that stung a little. As all that was happening, my visual cortex was going haywire. There was Mary in my line of sight. There was the window. There as Mary again. There was the kitchen. There was the floor. There was Mary. There was that hairbrush. There were my bare legs. There was the couch. And my heart rate was all over the place. First the shock of being exposed to the cold world outside my blanket, to say nothing of being stripped of my clothing. Then the dance marathon she forced me to undertake just to try to stay ahead of that hairbrush. And my sense of touch? Fuhgeddaboudit. The tight grip on my upper arm. The searing pain on my butt and thighs. The abrupt and and unexpected wetness on cheeks. All put together, I was having a suddenly and inexplicably very hard day. But I am ever the trooper, every so composed, ever so ready to pull myself together in the harshest of circumstances, to focus on the important things. That stellar ability of mine is how I was able to collect myself and pay attention to what Mary was saying (Shouting? What’s just shy of shouting?). “You naughty, naughty …” Of course, Mary, not being as cool as cucumber me, couldn’t seem to even finish a thought. “Never been in so much trouble you think you’re hold still and take your we’ll just see about don’t you try to won’t sit for move your to the stone age when I’m through with you HOLD STILL!” I mean, geez, Mary, cliché much? Nothing at all like how I all the clever things I said (really!) such as, “Mary Mary Mary OW Mary EEP Mary Mary STOP Mary NO Mary Mary Mary NOT MY THIGHS Mary WAAHH Mary Mary Marrrryyyyyyyy WAAH WAAH MaryyyyyyWAAHHHHHHH!” I never did like getting spanked standing up. Best case, you feel like you’re giving up even more control cuz you’re on your feet, perfectly capable of running away or (heaven forfend!) fighting back, but you’re standing there and taking it. Worst case, you do try to run away or at least resist and end up getting pushed and pulled in a continuous circle as you try to get your spankable parts away from whatever is spanking you and the person doing the spanking is basically playing a circular game of whack-a-mole (whack-a-butt) looking for every opening to land a spank. There’s exactly three ways for that to end. First, your spanker decides you’ve learned your lesson and it’s over, and if you think Mary was going to come to that decision, this must be your first time breaking into my diary. Second, in your effort to not get spank and their effort to spank, something very hard hits your hand, and the injury brings things to abrupt stop. But Mary and I are Level 99 at this stuff and wouldn’t make a rookie mistake like that. The third way is the spanker unilaterally decides (so rude) to finish your spanking (or start your second spanking, depending on how naughty your choices were) in a manner more advantageous to them. And if that happens, the circular spank dance the two of you are playing becomes a beeline linear waltz to the nearest suitable piece of furniture. If you’re lucky, you get dragged there by your arm. If you’re not lucky, you get picked up under their arm or tossed over their shoulder like an unruly toddler. And if you’re me, you realize just how much you bit off and panic, so it’s not a straight line to the nearest sturdy chair but a zig zag. You zig (try to get away), and they zag (spank you right back toward that chair). In our case, a kitchen chair, pulled with something less than gentle care out from the table, upon which is your purse … and the subtle prop that started all this. “Marrryyy.” Hey my feet are off the floor. “Whoah!” Hey the floor is coming rapidly toward my face. “Oof!” O goodie, a controlled landing across Mary’s lap. “Cigarettes!” Mary barked. SPANK! “In your purse!” SPANK! “Explain yourself, young lady!” SPANK! “Um … I’m holding them for a friend?” SPANK “Yowl!” “Not like you’re gonna!” Wonder what that means? SPANKSPANKSPANKSPANK-YOOOOOOOWWWWLLLLLL-SPANKSPANKSPANKSPANK-OOOOWWWWWLLLLLL-SPANKSPANKSPANKSPANK O, that’s what she meant. Dammit. “Try again.” “They make me look cool?” O gawd wrong answer eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyoowwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh. “Stop! Please!!!” “There (SPANK!) is (SPANK!) no (SPANK!) smo-(SPANK!)-king (SPANK!) in (SPANK!) this (SPANK!) house (SPANK!) do (SPANK!) I (SPANK!) make (SPANK!) my-(SPANK!)-self (SPANK!) clear (SPANK!)?” “But it wasn’t in the house!” SPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANK “I can do what I want!” It’s actually never a good idea for me to say that pretty at any time. SPANK!SPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANK “I’m not a little girl!” You’d think that would go in one ear and out the other for all the good reciting it almost daily does. I mean, does she even hear it? “You (SPANK!) are (SPANK!) too (SPANK!) a (SPANK!) lit-(SPANK!)-tle (SPANK!) girl (SPANK!)! You (SPANK!) are (SPANK!) my (SPANK!) lit-(SPANK!)-tle (SPANK!) girl(SPANK!), and (SPANK!) you (SPANK!) are (SPANK!) NOT (SPANK!) going (SPANK!) to (SPANK!) ruin (SPANK!) your (SPANK!) health (SPANK!) so (SPANK!) help (SPANK!) me (SPANK!)! Do (SPANK!) you (SPANK!) under-(SPANK!)-stand (SPANK!) me (SPANK!) lit-(SPANK!)-tle (SPANK!) girl?” SPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANKSPANK Some people – uninformed, scurrilous, scrofulous, ill mannered, of very poor breeding and worse upbringing – will claim (lie, actually, cuz it’s a lie. you know, the thing liars do? yeah, that) that by this point I was limp as a dishrag, bawling my eyes out, and muttering nonsense words punctuated every half-second by outcries of pain and regret. But I wasn’t. I was quite stoic and maintained my characteristic equanimity and good cheer. Um, really. Some people will claim that Mary, a little out of breath and kinda sweaty, delivered one final thunderspank, set the hairbrush down, and did one hundred percent of the work of lifting my limp body from laying across her lap to sitting me in it, and that’s a true story. “Shhh. I only spanked you so hard because I love you so much.” “Eeemee meee!” “And don’t think I won’t do it again if I so much as smell smoke on your clothes.” “Mee mee meeee meemeemee!” O my gawd she spanked me so hard she turned me into a muppet! “At home, in public, in front of company. This is a very serious, and I’ll drop your pants and panties and bruise your butt right then and there.” “Meeeeeeeeeeee!” “Yes, you.” Did she just ... grr. “I’m soorrryyyyy,” I sobbed (yay making words again!). “I know you are. You’d be a very silly little girl if that spanking didn’t get through to you. “Ionvruagen.” Well, the words were nice while they lasted. “You know I love you very much?” O my god – she does!?! “Hhh hhh hhhwaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!” Perfectly reasonable response, just the way us perfect and reasonable people always respond. “You are such a silly goose. Calm down. Shhhhh. You’re okay. …Take a deep breath … Shhhhh … Daphne, breathe. Sweetie, you need to breath.” SPANK! “(Gasp cough choke snot release).” I’m so fucking pretty. “(Whimper snort snort whimper snort).” And classy. “Let’s go wash your face, and I’ll rub some cream on your bottom.” “M-Mar?” “Yes, my sweet girl?” “It w-was just a s-scene.” “I know, sweetie. If I thought you actually smoked any, you’d have a bar a soap in your mouth, an enema nozzle in your bottom, and a second spanking coming with the belt.” “O.” “I won’t have you ruining your pretty pink lungs or smelling like a a bar or tasting like an ash tray.” “Me neither.” “Come on, let’s go upstairs,” Mary said as she put me on my feet and held my hand up the steps. “You called me a bad girl.” “I didn’t mean it. You’re a good girl.” “I didn’t even inhale.” “My very good girl.” Ooo! Not to brag or nothin’, but my wife who just spanked my butt purple says that I’m her very good girl. “(SNURFFLE!) I needuh bow my ose.” “Heehee! And you already got so much of it on me.” “I’ma chooz uh eezyer thene neth time (SNURFFLE!).” “God you are so fucking pretty.” “I wo, wight? (SNURRFLE!)”

Yep. I wrote the whole thing in one sitting today. Just couldn’t stand the thought of proofing it for another two hours or making you guys what a day. Plus I wanted to work on. New story.

Very long chapter. didn't proof read. O well. ___________________________ Scene #153 So what’s in the black mystery bag? Was it worth being well behaved? And let’s be honest and all admit together that a person can find being well behaved quite burdensome even though they’re not a brat. Really. “Daffodil,” Mary said to me Sunday afternoon. We’d attended zoom church, had lunch, and were having a lazy Sunday, the best kind, when my lovely wife sang my name as she came a-looking for me. “Daffodil … There you are.” “I need sun or else I revert to being a ginger,” I said from the chaise lounge on our patio. Not that it’s possible to get a tan or anything this time of year , but a little Vitamin D is good for the … whatever Vitamin D does. And it was warm enough to be okay in a light jacket. “It’s been a week.” “What has” I asked knowing exactly what had been a week. “Wanna come inside?” “I don’t know. Do I?” “C’mere, smartypants.” She pulled me to my feet and gave me a fun swat on my butt as she followed me inside. “Up the stairs and stop at the top.” O dammit all to yes she’s got the blindfold. And was twirling it suggestively on her finger. The blindfold is less a sex thing and more a I’m-excited-and-want-this-to-be-a-surprise thing. I even made her put it on the first time I made a whole chicken cuz I was proud of how good I did. Sooo good! It was brown and crispy on the outside and tender and moist on the inside, and the potatoes! OMG the potatoes! Anyhoo, she guided me into our boudoir and bade me hold still. “Arms up.” She took my shirt off, and I felt the vent blowing. She always turns the heat up a little or the A/C down a little when she gets me naked for these things. She wants me comfortable and relaxed, not goosebumpy and cold. “You put on a bra today.” “I thought I’d be fancy,” I giggled. I wasn’t cold, but still a little goosebumpy with the excitement and anticipation. She took it off, and I could sense her circling around me. “Another growth spurt,” she said as she hugged me from behind, taking two handfuls of … something, and added, “and you’ll be ready to graduate out of training bras.” “They’re not training bras, and I’m only letting that pass because … mmmm.” With the grabbing and the kneading and the mmmm. “Pants down next.” I coulda predicted that. She has taken my pants down so many times, she can flick a finger and the button just pops open. It just goes so show that ninja sorceresses hafta practice too. I mean, she mastered it sooner than a regular person would and does it with a certain sprezzatura, but it took practice to make perfect. There’s hope for us mere mortals yet. “With these slim little hips of yours. And what pretty panties you’re wearing.” “They just appeared in my drawer as if by magic.” As if an underpants gnome – and not just any underpants gnome, but Mary Queen of Underpants Gnomes – had taken a pair of my most ladylike panties and put them in my drawer, right on top where I’d be sure to see them, the royal purple satin standing out from the few pairs of cotton ones she’d left for me (unicorns, seahorses, strawberries, hello kitty, plain heather grey with a little pink bow). “Know what’s more fun than wearing pretty panties?” “Having them peeled d-down your legs by y-you?” “Are you stuttering cuz you’re nervous or cuz you’re excited?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Lift your foot.” “Can I keep my socks on?” “Toes cold?” “Mhmm.” “I got the heated throw all warmed up to keep those nice and toasty. Lift.” Aww! See how she thinks of me. “And the other … There. Daphne Ann Taylor, you are naked.” “This sorta thing happens to me every day,” I giggled. True story. At some point, naked. Showers, getting dressed, stuff and things. “Stand right here,” Mary said as she put me in very specific spot. “Why?” “Cuz.” “Woah! You pushed me!” O my god, seriously? She pushed me. She pushed me right down on to the bed. “I’ve always wanted to do that. You okay?” “Yeah.” Hey, she pushed me. That’s new and different. I mean, I’m more used to being pulled than pushed. Pulled into the corner for a timeout. Pulled into the dressing room as Macy’s for a … chastisement, verbal only cuz I’m way too old to get spanked. Really. Pulled into restrooms, out of cars … bent over the hood of the same car. I guess that counts as pushing, not that she ever has to pull or push very hard. I’m quite biddable. It’s almost like, and wouldn’t this be crazy, I like that stuff. Weird, I know. “So,” I asked, “what’s in that bag?” No particular reason I was asking. In fact, I really didn’t even care. That’s me – a study in nonchalance. “Well,” my Mary said to me as she did something. IDK what. I was blindfolded. Remember? “First off, let’s set some ground rules.” “I’m a good rule follower. One of the best. Really.” Just ask Mrs. Kindler, my kindergarten teacher. She recognized right away that I’m a good rule follower and even told my parents and the school counselor, ‘Daphne gets very anxious when other people aren’t following the rules.’ Ya don’t think that was indicative of any qualities or interests I’d later hold in life, do you? “You’re a very good rule follower, and an all-around good girl.” Squeeee! “Which is why I know you’ll follow these rules. The first rule is do your best to hold still. The second rule is keep your hands above your head. The third rule is keep your feet on the bed. And the third rule is do as I say, but that’s always a rule, isn’t it? “Yes’m” “And if you need help with any of the other three rules, I put the restraints on the bed posts just in case. Say that word, and we’ll just tie you down.” “I’m sorry, the who now?” “The restraints. You remember those. We got them a long time ago because a certain someone had a difficult time learning to stay in position. Remember?” “Ugh.” “Heehee. So that would be a yes.” It would indeed be a yes. Relating that period in our relationship deserves its very own chapter that I may someday relate in this diary that no one will ever read except me, but so sum it up, it went something like ‘Hold still.’ ‘Ouch!’ ‘I told you to hold still.’ “So let’s see those hands above your head.” I could hear her moving around, then coming back toward me and felt her get on the bed next to my hip. “When you said you didn’t feel well last week, I thought it would be a good time to get out the present Sandy gave me.” “Sandy’s been giving you presents?” Which, just first off, what the hell?!? I was that little girl who needed a present on someone else’s birthday to avoid getting all huffy and tossing a wobbly. I got over it by age seven. But also, I like presents! Where’s my present!?! Getting Mary presents without getting me a present … Hmmph! And second, crap. Sandy, that magnificent pot stirrer who delights in getting my goat and is directly responsible for the introduction of all things absorbent and crinkly into my life. “Mhmm. She thought since it’s my job to take care of you, I could use a few special tools to help.” Eep. “Let’s start by having you spread those legs.” Gulp. “It came in such a nice bag too. It has a zipper.” She unzipped it, she rezipped it, she unzipped it. Such a cliché … but it had a way of making me tingly anyway. Nothing reminds you you’re naked and blindfolded like a zipper to a mystery bag full of what I suspected were med-fet toys opening and closing. “She even left some instructions for me. ‘Dear Mary, You take such good care of Daffy, and to help you do that, I got you some equipment. I know you’re not a nurse, but if you follow these instructions you shouldn’t hurt her too much.’ Isn’t that sweet of her?” “(Squirmy anxiety noises).” “Okay, let’s see. Step one. Aww, this’ll be good. Remember to hold still.” O heccin heck I tried to hold still. I heard something tear, and realized a moment later it was a little paper foil packet containing an alcohol wipe that Mary, “Eeeeep!!” “No squirming, Daffodil.” “That’s … hot.” “Yes, sweetie. I know what alcohol wipes feel like. It probably feels very cool now, doesn’t it.” “Ehem.” “What a cute whimper that was. It’s important to be very sanitary. Remember when we talked about hygiene for young ladies? We’ll just get this … there we go. Almost done with this part. Just a couple more. Are you cold?” “Mmm-mmm.” “O good. Cuz your nipples are so hard.” Yes. Yes they were. Hard, and then warm and then cool. “One more time. Let me reach uff under uff here and … there it is. Ope! Keep those legs open.” “Eeeee I’m tryingggg.” Isn’t there some kind of clause in the Hippocratic oath about not using alcohol wipes on any part of the female body that could be euphemistically described as a button? “No shame in asking for the restraints. Okay, that’s done. Step two. A manual exam. I think this will feel familiar to you.” “What w mmmm.” “You’re supposed to do this each month. Have you been doing it at least once a month?” “Y-yes.” But I don’t do it quite the way she was doing it. Not quite as much kneading or pinching … or circular motions. “What’s your secret, Daffodil?” “My huh?” “Your secret to keeping your breast so perky? Personally, I’m not a doctor but I did stay at a holiday inn express last night, and I’d say being so small chested and not wearing a bra most days is probably why.” “That’s n-not very n-nice.” “It’s so cute when you have trouble saying your n’s. These are both fine. Pert and perky. How about we start doing that together each month? That way I can show you how. I know how daunting these womanly tasks can be for such a little girl. Heehee.” “Be n-nice.” “Mmmm. I’ll be so n-nice you’ll make all sorts of noises. You ready for step three?” “Mhmm.” And here I thought medical fetish tended to hurt. Slap! “Yeeech! Marrrry!” “Just following directions. Keep those hands above your head.” Slap! She’s not supposed to spank that part of me! Hmmph! At least unless I’ve done something to earn it … or unless I feel like it … or unless she feels like it. It’s … sensitive. “(Small gay whimper).” “Know what this part of the exam is for?” Slap! “(Smaller gay whimper).” “Wanna tell me what you’re feeling right now,” my kind and caring nurse Mary asked. I’ve been to lots of doctors, and I musta missed the part of the exam where they just slap it. “(Meeping noise) and stings and (sniffle).” “Interesting. Let’s try this oversized tongue depressor.” SPANK! “Yowww! M-Marrry (sniffle) (sob). That hurt,” I complained as I snapped my legs shut and rolled to my side where she couldn’t get to it again. I mean, I’ll give her access later, just not when she has whatever it was she got me with. “Normal reaction. That’s good. And it says here in these notes that if you roll over on your side, the best way to get you to roll back is to …” “Yawp!” “ … reach behind and pinch it from there.” Sandy must be a good nurse cuz yep, I rolled right back over to my back. “I don’t see any reason this toy can’t be added to our others.” I’d rather she didn’t! “No! … What is it?” “You’ll find out the next time you need a trip over my knee. Step four.” “Um how many steps are there? Asking for my friend.” “Such a question,” was Mary’s non-answer. What the heck does that even mean!?! She’s so … ugh! Grr. And stuff! “Spread those little legs of yours again.” “But why?” “Because I said so,” she practically growled at me. “O.” I mean, why didn’t just say that in the first place? I do lots of things cuz she says so. Some of them I even want to do, but plenty of them are totally and only and solely and definitely cuz she says so. She makes the rules, and I am her good little rule follower. Though now that I think on it, I can’t help noticing that following the rules very often causes the exact same kind of pain as results from now following the rules. Suspicious, that. Hmmm. I was just about to interrogate that thought further when, “Feels normal to me,” Mary said. And I was thinking, while she was rubbing that thing, what an interesting coincidence that was cuz her hand felt normal to me too. Though if I’m being honest, and sometimes that is very hard to do with healthcare professionals, it felt a little tender to me cuz a certain healthcare professional tenderized it a little. Ya know what I think? I think she’s a quack. That’s what she is. A quack. A fraud. Doesn’t even have a license to “Fnurple!” “The patient responded to the pinwheel being rolled across her labia majora by exclaiming, ‘fnurple.’ Let’s see how she reacts to her labia minora.” “O ffffffff.” “Patient responded by bitting her lip so hard … honey, you’re gonna … good girl. Patient responded to being called ‘good girl’ by making smiley face, giggling twice, and sighing.” This is what I mean by Mary just not having my way with words. It wasn’t just any smiley face. It was my all-is-right-with-the-world smile, just a couple seconds of arc away from my post-orgasm smile. And all was right with the world. Mary called me a good girl, and she took that pinwheel off of – or out of, depending on how you think about it – my … stuff. I hafta say I was starting to enjoy myself what with Mary having done a couple things I enjoy all the time and wish she’d so more of but won’t cuz she seems to think it wouldn’t be fun at all if she bruised it. You know how they say not having access to once sense heightens the others? I’d like to think that blindfolded or not, the sound of metal clanking against metal would we alarming to hear when you’re flat on your back with your legs open. “Step five seems like more of a thing to do with Sandy in the room, and step six … hmmm.” Hey! Hey! Think out loud! I’m not scared! You are! “We’ll save it for when your choices have been very, very naughty. But don’t think I won’t.” “What is it?” “I’ll tell you in a moment. Flip over.” “Make me.” Heehee! “Woah! Heehee.” I love it when she does that. She can manhandle me anytime, and it’s even more impressive cuz I don’t have a handle to man … I regret saying that. Anyhoo, Mary’s Level 99 ability to flip me over is just fun, except when she uses it for evil so she can spank me. I don’t even know why she does that. I’ve never earned a spanking in my life. Really. “For this part, we’re gonna use the restraints,” Mary said as she climbed right on top of me, planted a knee on either side to pin little ol’ me between her legs, and started attaching the wrist cuffs. It was only then, feeling her on top of me, that I realized my nurse – and how unprofessional was this – was naked. Totally naked … with very warm skin resting against my very warm skin. It was enough to momentarily distract me from the big picture, which is saying a lot cuz I’m the sorta person who sees the forest and the trees, as a spritely wood nymph such as myself must if I’m to survive in the forest I share with Mary the Big Bad She-Wolf. “But why,” is a question I asked when she turned her attention to the ankle cuffs. “Do you remember why we got these in the first place?” “Vividly.” “So when we do the next step, I won’t hafta do that to you.” “O … thanks?” “You’re very welcome (kiss).” Aww, she kissed me! The Big Bad She-Wolf kissed me! And all this time I thought she was trying to gobble me up, and it turns out she’s just socially inept and didn’t know the right way to say that she likes me. Maybe even like likes me. Sigh. SPANK! “Ow. Mary, have you ever even been to the doctor, cuz that’s not how OW!” Oof. That was a big one. “Patient readily displays handprints on her bottom cheeks.” “Malpractice suit,” I grumbled. “You’re too little to sue, sweetheart. And yes, you did just hear a rubber glove snapping.” “I hope that hurt your wrist but not really cuz I like you and I’m having fun.” Especially now that she wasn’t slapping my most sensitive parts and poking ‘em with pinwheels and stuff. “I’m having fun too. You’re a very good patient.” “I patient patient.” “Now for this next part, you might feel a sensation as though your butt cheeks are being spread, but that’s only because they are.” “Mmm.” If wish there were a way to do that without actually doing it. Never fails but every time that happens, I can’t help but feel a really good stretch I wish I could replicate cuz it feels good. But trying telling that to your yoga instructor and see the face she makes. Judgmental pretzel girl … Anyhoo, “And this next sensation may feel …” Greasy? Goopy? Gloppy? Looooooobricated? “What is that?” “Vaseline.” “But … fine.” We don’t use vaseline. We use water-based lubes. Water-based lubes get absorbed. Oil-based lubes get absorbed eventually. Nothing short of a towel would be needed to clean me up, and I for one nominate one of Mary’s towels. Just sayin’. “And just relax. You’re gonna feel something cold on your button.” Gulp. “Okay. This is a little tricky, so bear with me here.” “That’s not inspiring much confidence.” “One, two, three …” ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. What the hell was … ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. “Don’t be alarmed.” ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. Why the hell are my teeth chattering!?! ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. O gawd that feels … “Just let it happen.” ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. “Mmmmmary?” “Doing okay?” “I must confess to you that I’m very sexually stimulated right now … I think I have a girl-rection.” “Patient gets girl-rections.” ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. “Zeezle! What is that even … ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. “Gah!” “Patient began to hyperventilate. Attempted to close her legs but merely tightened her lovely little adductor muscles.” ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz. “Hhh … hhhhhh! Uuummmuh! Please don’t …” ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! “Ahhh! Ahhh. O. Ooo … haha … sigh …” O my gawd, what did she do to me and why didn’t she do it sooner? What the damn even? “Patient came … hard.” Ooo, I made the nurse laugh. “What … even?” “A tuning fork and a reflex hammer. I think you’re vibrate best at 500 gigahertz.” “… Okay …” I swear, for a full two seconds the world behind my blindfold turned bright white. Is that a thing? “Let’s feel. Just get my hand ugh under uf … Yep, patient squirted. I knew I shoulda put a pad down first. Patient has a history of leaking fluids all over the bed, even through her diapers.” “Patient is sleepy now.” Just … ya know, good time to take a nap. “I have just the thing to wake the patient up. Just a sec … there.” “Yipe!” I’m awake! … What’s happening? “What are you …” “Ya know how sometimes I check your temperature by putting my hand on your forehead?” I do recall that, and it makes me feel all fuzzy about her even when I don’t feel good. “And you know how we have a forehead thermometer? And you know how they make rectal thermometers?” “That’s not …” “Sandy put one in here, but I figured, hey, if you putting my hand on your forehead works instead of a thermometer, why not just put two fingers in your bottom?” “(Sound of a blank mind).” Mary sometimes has that effect on me. Really. And hey, you ever notice that when someone puts the back of their hand on your forehead to see if you feel hot, they take their hand off you in literally a second? And did you ever notice that they don’t move their hand in small circles? … Or put their thumb on your perineum and hold you like a bowling ball? “Suck in your tummy like you’re trying to hold your pee.” “W-why?” “Cuz I said.” O yeah. Alright, here I … huh. That’s a new sensation. “Now push out … Patient displays good muscle tone.” Couldn’t help but notice Mary was leaving her fingers in there while she did whatever she was doing. “Lift up your pelvis just a bit … Good girl … Patient giggles when called a good girl, causing a slight contraction of her anal sphincter … Patient’s butt blushes from the back of her ears all the way to her butt when you point that out.” Not to be rude or anything, but, um … “Are you almost done?” “Just a second. Let me turn this on.” Bwuhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! “Hhh! Hhh! Ugh! Rghhhhhhh!!! Hhh … hhh …” “Patient rapidly comes to orgasm. Unclear whether speed of response is due to recency of previous orgasm, the motion I’m making with my fingers, or turning the vibrator straight to high. Further experimentation needed.” “Muh … wuh …” I was going for ‘when.’ My Mary and I can read each other’s minds. True story. Bwuhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! “O o o o o o o nrrrrrrr rrrr! Hehh! Hehh hhh … hhh …” “Results inconclusive. Try again in a week. How you doing, Daffy? Ew. Patient is sweaty.” So wait a second. This was what Mary was gonna do to me for misbehaving? Did I miss something? Did she follow the instructions right? “M’okay.” “You’re okay? I’m exiting.” Ope! “You have quite the strong pelvic floor, Daffodil. You should felt how hard you contracts around my fingers when you made those noises.” “I did … Can you please take the blindfold off?” “Right after I take these gloves off.” “O … Good idea.” And she even remembered to keep the lights off so I wouldn’t get all squinty when she took the blindfold off. She’s so thoughtful. “Better?” “Yeah.” “We got one more thing to do.” “It is nap?” “Fine, two more things.” She took the cuffs off, and even though they weren’t tight, I still rubbed my wrists. I guess it’s a reflex, and no surprise cuz she just tested some of those and they’re very strong. I rolled over all on my own, getting my first glimpse of the vibrator she’d put under me. “I didn’t even know they make them corded.” “When you need more power, plug it right into the main,” she said as she cleaned things up. I … didn’t help her do that. “You made a mess.” “Did not.” “That’s not my wet spot all over the sheets, silly goose.” O … that. “It’s still yours. When you shake up the soda bottle, you don’t blame the bottle for the mess.” “Pbbbt! Okay, fine. That’s mine.” She went into the bathroom and I’m guess just set everything down to clean later, and then came back out and went into the closet. Shocker. “Do you want a medical diaper so the other patients don’t make fun of you, or do you want … bunnies?” “I want nothing.” True story. Nothing wrong with getting some air. “Not an option, sweetie. Not after that mess.” She came out with a bunny diaper. “Well, pretty sure I’m not gonna do that again.” “But you didn’t know you were gonna do those three either. Lay back.” “Fine … But only because I like you. I don’t like the diapers.” “I know sweetie. Lift up … There. Be right back.” “Why,” I asked her as she disappeared back into the bathroom. “I said we still had one more thing to do,” she answered as she walked back over with … “What kind of syringe is that?” “It’s a douche syringe.” “Ew. Mary.” “Don’t worry, sweetie. That’s not how we’re gonna use it. Or more specifically, how I’m gonna use and how you’re gonna have it used on you.” You’d think I’d be pretty desensitized after the last hour we’d spent together with her doing all those things to me, but watching her put on another rubber glove, I gotta say no. No, I wasn’t desensitized. “Put your head back … Now lift your knees to your chest. Hold them there. Let me just rub this on your … Patient has responds eagerly to gentle circles on her button … Just relax. Sliding it in … There.” “You hafta to tell me what’s in there before you …” “This is gonna feel a little weird.” “What is it?” “Vaseline. One two three …” Hoohah that’s a weird feeling. “Ha. Patient makes the cutest faces when I do stuff to her butt.” “You would … too. What was that for,” I asked as she took the syringe out, removed her glove and walked back into the bathroom o so casually. I was just curious. No other reason I asked. “To see you make a funny face later.” I heard her washing her hands. “While will I make a funny face later?” Hey, this feels … eep! “Cuz your body is going to slowly push that back out of you.” “Um, Mary?!?” That made her come a running back in. “Knees down. There,” she said as she diapered me in record time. “What the heck!?!” “Feel funny?” “Yes!” And not haha funny. NOT HAHA FUNNY! “Try to hold it.” “Why?” “Cuz you won’t be able to.” O my god! She’s … “What? Stop smiling!” “Make me.” “You … Urgh!” “It could be worse. It could’ve been a suppository.” “You mean it’s gonna make me …. You know!?!” “Of course not, silly. Though it may make going tomorrow pretty easy. But today the Vaseline will just come out into your diaper. Aren’t you glad you’re wearing it?” Hhh! There’s a sensation you don’t feel every day. At least she doesn’t hafta know when it’s happening. “Aww, did something just go squirt in your pampers?” “No! … How could you tell?” “Cuz your eyebrow is arched liked you’re … working something out.” “It’s not funny!” “A little bit.” “It’s not!” “And cute.” “It’s …” Screw it! And by ‘it,’ I mean what was left of my dignity. I put my hand in the back of my diaper (hers, to be clear) and … It was very slick in there, and there was nothing I could do about it. If she had tried to put a plug in me, it wouldn’t have stayed put. “Marrrry!” “Awww, c’mere.” Good! I needed a hug. “I know it feels funny, sweetie, but you’ll get used to it. It’ll be over in an hour and two, and we’ll get you into some clean huggies. Okay?” “I guess.” What choice did I have? This was so embarrassing! I couldn’t control it, and she knew it, and just … hmmm. “(Conflicted noises).” “How about we go take that nap now?” “Okay.” “In the guest room. We’ll put our sheets in the washer later.” “Okay.” “You gonna be smol and nonverbal cuz you’re embarrassed?” Ugh. Called out. “Mhmm.” “Did you have fun being my patient?” “Mhmm … What was that other thing? The one you said you’d tell me later?” “A catheter.” “Nnnnooooo! No, Mary! No!” She seemed to consider my position before replying, “We’ll save it as a just-in-case punishment.” “But … rrrrmmm.” “The classic sound of little girls who need their nap.” “Can we have sex later?” “… Really?” “I didn’t get to share.” “You’re so thoughtful. Under the covers, little spoon. And let’s try to keep these sheets dry, hmm?” I let that go. I let the diaper pats go. I let it go when she asked me if I had any more of that Vaseline to let go (turns out yes). And I’ll tell you one darn thing – I like her. Like, a lot. And I’m a good sharer too.